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OLD 


MARGARET  DELAND 


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[Sop  page  214 
TIIKRE    WAS    A    LITTLE    SILENCE,    AND    THEN    DR.    LAVENDAR    BEGAN 


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AROUND 
OLD   CHESTER 


BY 

MARGARET  DELANO 

AUTHOR  OF 

"DR.  LAVENDAR'S  PEOPLE" 
"HELENA  RICHIE"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


..  *.$, 

(/ 


a  .-/a i— 


BOOKS  BY 
MARGARET  DELAND 

AROUND  OLD  CHESTER.     Illustrated.    Post  Svo. 

THE  HANDS  OF  ESAU.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

OLD  CHESTER  TALES.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

AN  ENCORE.     Illustrated.     Svo. 

DR.  LAVENDAR'S  PEOPLE.    Illustrated.   Post  Svo. 

GOOD  FOR  THE   SOUL.     16mo. 

HELENA  RICHIE.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

PARTNERS.     Illustrated.     Crown  Svo. 

R.  J.'S  MOTHER,     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

THE   COMMON  WAY.     16mo. 

THE   IRON  WOMAN.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

THE   VOICE.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

THE   WAY   TO  PEACE.     Illustrated.     Svo. 

WHERE  THE  LABORERS  ARE  FEW.    Ill'd.     Svo. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


AROUND  OLD  CHESTER 


Copyright,  1898,  1902,  1904.  1912,  1913.  1914.  iQiS,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  191.7. 

I-P 


TO 
LORIN      DELANO 

WHO  CAME  TO 
OLD  CHESTER 
FOR  A  WIFE 


MAY    12,    1915 

KENNEBUNKPORT,  ME. 


o«U)  t/ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"TURN  ABOUT" 3 

THE  HARVEST  OF  FEAR 57 

THE  VOICE 117 

AN  ENCORE 171 

THE  THIRD  VOLUME 219 

THE  THIEF 275 

Miss  CLARA'S  PERSEUS 327 


i  < 


TURN    ABOUT" 


AROUND  OLD  CHESTER 


"TURN  ABOUT" 

NOTHING  interested  Old  Chester  quite  so 
much  as  a  wedding.  Possibly  because  it 
had  so  few  of  them,  but  probably  because,  as 
even  the  most  respectable  community  is  made 
up  entirely  of  individuals,  who,  being  human  crea 
tures,  are  at  heart  gamblers,  the  greatest  gamble 
in  life — marriage — arouses  the  keenest  interest. 
Old  Chester  would  have  been  very  properly 
shocked  if  any  outside  person  had  offered  to  take 
odds  on  one  of  our  rare  weddings;  but  all  the 
same  we  said  to  one  another,  "What  possessed 
her  to  take  him?"  or,  "What  on  earth  can  he  see 
in  her?"  then,  in  chorus,  the  gambling  instinct 
betrayed  itself:  "Let  us  hope  it  will  turn  out  well; 
but— " 

There  were  two  Old  Chester  marriages  about 
which  it  was  hardly  possible  to  say  anything  even 
as  hopeful  as  "but";  and  certainly  no  one  could 

3 


AROUND    OLD   CHESTER 

have  been  found  to  take  odds  that  they  would 
turn  out  well!  There  was  still  a  third  wedding— 
But  perhaf  s  it  is  better  to  begin  at  the  beginning. 

The  very  beginning  would  be  the  death,  down 
South,  of  Jirn  Williams's  widowed  sister,  Mrs. 
Sarah  Gale,  and  her  legacy  to  her  brother  of  her 
baby  boy.  But  that  was  so  very  far  back!  Of 
course  some  people  were  able  to  remember  the 
astonished  dismay  of  the  handsome,  quick-tem 
pered  young  bachelor,  James  Williams,  when,  with 
out  any  warning,  a  baby  was  left,  so  to  speak,  on 
his  door-step.  At  least,  it  arrived  in  charge  of  a 
colored  mammy,  who  installed  herself  at  the  Tav 
ern  where  young  Williams  had  lived  since  his 
mother's  death;  and  where, as  he  came  sauntering 
home  to  supper  in  the  April  dusk,  he  found  the 
nurse  and  baby  awaiting  him.  Those  who  wit 
nessed  Jim's  emotion  when  the  big,  fat,  black 
woman  suddenly  plumped  the  baby  into  his  arms, 
had  to  retire  precipitately  to  hide  mirth  which, 
at  such  a  juncture,  would  have  been  unseemly. 

" What's  this?  What's  this?"  said  the  startled 
young  man,  almost  letting  his  nephew  drop  under 
the  shock  of  his  soft  little  weight;  then  he  looked 
around  suspiciously,  ready  to  knock  down  any 
grinning  onlooker.  But  nobody  laughed,  for  of 
course  the  nurse,  with  all  the  satisfaction  of  her 
class  in  giving  bad  news,  had  already  informed 
the  Tavern  of  the  sad  necessity  which  had  brought 
her  to  Old  Chester. 

She  informed  Jim,  with  proper  tearfulness, 
4 


"TURN    ABOUT' 

4 'Mrs.  Gale  is  dead,  suh;    and  she  left  this  yer 
blessed  lamb  to  you." 

"What?  My  sister  dead! — Oh,  do  take  the 
thing!"  he  stammered,  shunting  the  lamb  back 
into  the  nurse's  arms  as  quickly  as  he  could. 
Then  he  got  himself  together  and  asked  his  star 
tled  questions — for  he  had  not  even  known  of 
Mrs.  Gale's  illness. 

Old  Chester  tradition  said  that  after  his  first 
grief  at  the  loss  of  his  sister  he  almost  refused 
to  receive  the  child.  He  was  not  rich,  and  his 
little  business  in  Upper  Chester  scarcely  sufficed 
to  provide  for  his  own  needs,  which  were  presently 
to  include  those  of  a  wife,  for  he  was  engaged  to 
be  married  to  a  very  pretty,  very  spoiled  girl. 

"Won't  Mr.  Gale's  relatives  take  charge  of  the 
child?"  he  asked  the  nurse;  who  told  him  that  for 
practical  purposes  the  late  Mr.  Gale  'hadn't  any 
relatives. 

"You's  the  only  'lation  the  little  angel  has," 
she  said. 

"Little  imp!"  said  Jim  to  himself;  and  added, 
under  his  breath,  "Tough  on  Mattie."  And 
indeed  it  was  hard  on  a  very  young  bride  to  be 
burdened  with  a  ready-made  family,  so  hard 
that  one  can  hardly  blame  Jim  Williams  for 
hesitating  to  accept  his  legacy.  The  thing  that 
really  decided  him  to  keep  the  "brat,"  as  he  called 
little  George,  was  that  Miss  Mattie  Dilworth  said 
he  mustn't. 

"I  can't  take  care  of  a  baby,"  she  pouted. 
5 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

"Darling,"  he  said,  looking  into  her  sweet, 
shallow  eyes,  "you  know,  perhaps,  some  day, 
we— " 

She  blushed  charmingly,  but  stamped  her  pretty 
foot .  "I  hate  babies ! ' ' 

"You  are  only  a  baby  yourself,"  he  said, 
catching  her  in  his  arms — she  was  so  very  pretty ! 

But  his  passion  did  not  soften  her  toward  the 
baby,  though  she  let  her  lover  kiss  her  as  much  as 
he  wanted  to.  "You've  got  to  send  it  away,"  she 
said,  her  red  lower  lip  hardening  into  a  straight 
line. 

He  made  what  appeal  he  could,  but  nothing 
he  could  say  moved  her,  and  the  wrangle  between 
them  went  on  for  a  month.  Then,  one  warm 
June  night,  down  in  the  perfumed  darkness  of  the 
Dilworth  garden,  Mattie,  choosing  a  moment 
when  Jim  was  most  obviously  in  love,  said 
bluntly  that  she  would  not  marry  him  unless  he 
gave  up  the  child. 

Jim  had  artfully  introduced  the  topic  of  his 
little  nephew: 

"Mammy's  a  bully  cook,"  he  began  (he  and 
mammy  and  the  baby  had  taken  a  house  which 
Mattie  had  expressed  a  willingness  to  live  in, 
and  set  up  an  establishment);  "you'll  love 
mammy's  cake." 

Mattie,  apparently,  was  indifferent  to  cake. 

"The  baby's  a  cute  little  beggar,"  Jim  went  on. 
"I  heard  him  cry  this  morning  when  mammy 
wouldn't  let  him  swallow  his  big  toe;  Lord,  it 

6 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

was  as  good  as  a  play!    I  had  a  great  mind  to 
pinch  him  to  make  him  do  it  again." 

"I  guess  after  you've  heard  him  howl  a  few 
times  you  won't  like  it  so  much,"  Mattie  said. 
Then,  suddenly,  came  the  ultimatum:  "You  can 
choose  between  your  baby  and  me." 

She  was  sitting  on  a  stone  bench  near  the  big 
white-rose  bush,  and  Jim  was  kneeling  beside  her; 
she  bent  over  him  as  she  put  the  choice  before 
him,  and  he  felt  her  soft  hair  blow  across  his  lips 
and  the  pressure  of  her  young  breast  against  his 
shoulder.  She  had  picked  a  rose  and  was  brush 
ing  it  back  and  forth  over  his  cheek. 

"I  simply  won't  have  the  baby;  you've  got  to 
choose  between  us." 

Her  lover  was  silent,  and  she  struck  him  lightly 
with  the  rose.  "Well?"  she  said. 

Jim  got  on  his  feet,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  "There  isn't 
any  choice,  Mattie,"  he  said.  "Good-by." 

Before  she  could  get  her  wits  together  he  had 
gone.  She  was  so  amazed  that  for  an  instant  she 
did  not  understand  what  had  happened;  then 
she  ran  after  him  through  the  garden:  "Come 
back,"  she  called,  softly,  "and  111  kiss  you!" 
He  paused,  his  hand  on  the  gate,  and  looked  at 
her.  Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  walked  away. 
Mattie  promptly  swooned  (so  she  told  all  her  girl 
friends  afterward),  right  there  on  the  path,  all  by 
herself.  When  she  came  to  she  went  into  the 
house  and  sat  down  and  wrote  him  a  letter,  the 

7 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

tenor  of  which  was  that  she  would  forgive  him. 
But  she  said  nothing  about  the  brat;  so  he  did 
not  appear,  to  accept  the  forgiveness.  Upon 
which  Mattie  took  to  her  bed,  and  seemed  about 
to  go  into  a  decline.  For  the  next  week  she  de 
spatched  many  little  notes,  written  on  scented 
pink  paper,  blistered,  the  sympathetic  bearers 
averred,  with  tears,  entreating  her  lover  to  return 
to  her — but  she  was  silent  as  to  little  George ;  and 
Jim,  growing  perceptibly  older  in  those  weeks  of 
pain  and  disillusionment,  made  acceptance  of 
George  the  price  of  his  return.  That  outspoken 
temper  of  his  fell  into  a  smoldering  silence,  which 
was  misleading  to  Old  Chester,  which  was  used  to 
his  quick  gusts  of  anger.  ''He'll  make  up  with 
her,"  people  said.  They  said  it  to  Mattie,  and 
no  doubt  it  encouraged  the  output  of  pink  notes. 
But  he  did  not  "make  up." 

In  those  days  in  Old  Chester  the  word  was  so 
nearly  the  bond,  that  it  took  courage  to  break  an 
engagement.  When  the  woman  did  it,  with  loss 
of  appetite,  and  (presumably)  earnest  prayer,  Old 
Chester  tried  to  be  charitable:  "Oh,  I  suppose, 
if  you  don't  love  him,  you  oughtn't  to  marry  him. 
But  how  shocking  to  change  your  mind!"  When 
the  man  was  the  one  who  did  the  breaking,  the 
disapproval  was  less  delicately  expressed.  ' '  Some 
body  ought  to  cowhide  him!"  said  Old  Chester; 
and  sent  the  girl  wine- jelly  in  sheaf -of -wheat  molds 
to  console  her. 

Jim  Williams  had  not  exactly  broken  his  en- 
8 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

gagement,  because  Mattie  had  taken  the  first  step 
toward  ending  it;  but  he  would  not  "make  up," 
so  it  was  plain  that  he  was  heartless;  "ungallant," 
was  Old  Chester's  expression.  As  for  Mattie,  she 
was  a  jilt ;  there  was  no  other  word  for  it,  although 
her  girl  friends  tried  to  excuse  her  by  saying  (as 
she  herself  said)  that  Jim  cared  more  for  a  per 
fectly  strange  baby  than  he  did  for  her  happiness. 
"I  told  him  I  would  forgive  him,"  she  sobbed  on 
every  sympathetic  shoulder;  "and  he  would  not 
come  back!  It  is  an  insult!"  she  added,  her 
breath  catching  pitifully  in  her  pretty  throat. 

But  when  its  shoulder  was  not  being  wept  upon, 
Old  Chester  said,  grimly:  "It's  the  pot  and  the 
kettle;  he  is  ungallant,  and  she  is  a  jilt." 

To  be  sure,  one  or  two  people — Dr.  Lavendar, 
notably,  and,  curiously  enough,  Mattie's  own 
brother,  Mr.  Thomas  Dilworth — said  Jim  had 
shown  his  sense  in  not  accepting  the  olive-branch. 

"It's  a  pity  more  people  don't  discover  that 
they  don't  want  to  get  married  before  the  wed 
ding-day  than  after  it,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar;  and 
Thomas  Dilworth  said  that,  though  he  had  a  great 
mind  to  thrash  Jim  Williams,  he  must  say  Jim 
was  no  fool. 

Old  Mrs.  Dilworth,  with  a  dish  of  whipped 
cream  in  her  hand,  pausing  on  her  way  up-stairs 
to  her  daughter's  bedroom,  looked  over  the  ban 
isters  and  reproached  her  son  for  his  harshness: 
"She's  simply  fading  away!"  said  Mrs.  Dilworth, 
tearfully  fumbling  for  her  damp  handkerchief. 

9 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"I  don't  think  Mattie  '11  fade  very  far  away," 
Tom  said;  I've  lived  with  my  dear  sister  for 
eighteen  years,  mother,  and  why  any  fellow  should 
want  to  marry  her — " 

"Thomas!" 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  Jim  ought  to  stand  up  to 
the  guns,  like  a  man,  when  a  lady  summons  him. 
Yes;  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  thrash  him." 

"Mother!"  a  plaintive  voice  called  from  up 
stairs;  "do  bring  me  something  to  eat." 

Tom  burst  out  laughing,  and,  whistling  loudly, 
sallied  forth,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of  thrash 
ing  the  defaulting  lover.  It  was  a  hot  July  after 
noon,  and  meeting  Jim  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
he  commented  on  the  weather  and  suggested  that 
they  should  go  in  swimming. 

"Happy  thought,"  said  Williams;  "it's  as  hot 
as  blazes." 

They  tramped  amicably  to  a  deep  pool,  where 
the  river,  curving  back  on  itself,  was  shadowed 
by  overhanging  trees.  There,  behind  some  blos 
soming  elder  -  bushes,  they  stripped,  dived  in, 
swam  the  length  of  the  brown,  still  inlet  dappled 
with  flecks  of  sunshine,  splashed  each  other, 
roared  with  laughter,  and  then  came  out  and  lay 
gleaming  wet  in  the  grass  under  the  locust-trees. 
Tom,  his  clasped  hands  beneath  his  curly  head, 
looked  up  through  the  lacy  leaves  into  a  cloud 
less  blue  sky,  and  said,  as  if  the  thought  had  just 
occurred  to  him: 

"I  understand  you  and  Mattie  have  bust  up?" 

10 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

1 '  She  doesn't  like  that  brat  I  have  on  my  hands/' 
Jim  said,  gravely,  "and  as  I  can't  get  rid  of  him, 
she  has  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"I  would  attach  myself  to  the  brat  with  hooks 
of  steel,"  Thomas  said,  warmly;  then,  remember 
ing  his  responsibilities,  he  added:  "If  you  urge 
her,  maybe  she'll  give  in?" 

Jim  rolled  over  on  his  stomach,  pulled  a  stalk  of 
blossoming  grass,  and  nibbled  its  white  end;  the 
sun  shone  on  his  glistening  wet  shoulders  and  his 
shapely,  sinewy  legs  kicking  up  over  his  back: 
"'If  the  court  knows  itself,  which  it  think  it  do, ' " 
he  said,  "Mattie  won't  give  in."  (He  added  to 
himself,  "I  bet  she  won't  get  the  chance  to!") 
But  this,  of  course,  he  did  not  say,  or  the  thrash 
ing  really  might  have  taken  place. 

"Oh,  well,  she'll  get  over  it,"  Mattie's  brother 
assured  him. 

"Of  course,"  Jim  agreed,  stiffly.  "Confound 
it,  Tom,  the  sun  is  hot  on  your  bare  skin.  Let's 
get  into  our  togs." 

"'Fraid  of  your  complexion,  I  suppose?"  Tom 
grunted.  "Don't  worry;  the  girls  won't  look  at 
you  now."  That  was  the  only  real  thrust  that  he 
gave.  They  put  on  their  clothes,  and  went  off 
in  opposite  directions,  Tom  whistling  blithely, 
and  Jim  looking  very  sober.  He  never  talked 
with  any  one  about  the  broken  engagement. 
When  small  things  offended  him,  his  temper  went 
off  like  a  firecracker;  but  when  he  was  deeply 
hurt  or  angry,  he  was  silent. 

2  II 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Old  Chester  liked  Jim,  and  did  not  very  much 
like  Mattie  Dilworth;  it  thought  she  would  have 
made  James,  or  anybody  else,  a  poor  wife;    but 
in  those  days,  especially  in  Old  Chester,  tradi 
tion  of  what  was  due  to  "the  sex"  overlaid  com 
mon  sense.     Nobody  ever  forgot  that  Williams 
had  declined  a  girl's  overtures.     Even  when,  six 
months  later,  the  girl  was  sufficiently  consoled  to 
marry  one  of  the  Philadelphia  Whartons  (excel 
lent  match,  certainly;)  and  disappeared  from  Old 
Chester's    narrow    horizon,    disapproval    of    Jim 
still  lingered;    probably  his  cynical  allusions  to 
"the  sex"   helped   to  keep  it   alive.     As  years 
passed,   it  became  an  accepted  belief  that  the 
young  man — growing  rapidly  into  an  older  man — 
had  been  deficient  in  gallantry.     In  speaking  of 
him,  Old  Chester  generally  coupled  what  it  had 
to  say  with  the  regret  that  he  had   "behaved 
badly."    It  always  added,  as  a  matter  of  justice, 
that  at  least  he  had  done  his  duty  to  his  nephew. 
Jim  accepted  this  opinion  of  his  conduct  with 
sardonic  meekness.     Once  in  a  while  he  referred 
to  the  "days  of  his  unregeneracy,"  and  every 
body  knew  what  he  meant.    But  he  never  brought 
forth  works  meet  for  regeneration  in  the  way  of 
paying  attention  to  any  other  lady  in  Old  Chester 
—or  out  of  it,  either.     Instead  he  devoted  him 
self  to  the  token  and  reason  of  his  misbehavior, 
his  little  nephew,  who,  painfully  shy  with  every 
other  human  being,  returned  his  devotion  with 
positive  worship.    G.  G.,  as  his  uncle  called  him, 

12 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

used  to  trot  along  at  Jim's  side,  lifting  adoring 
eyes  to  the  hard,  handsome  face,  and  watching 
for  the  lifting  of  a  finger  to  bid  him  go  this  way 
or  that.  Jim's  way  of  bringing  him  up  was  curt, 
and  left  nothing  to  the  imagination: 
"Don't  howl.19 

"Take  off  your  hat  to  ike  ladies" 
"Tell  the  truth  and  be  damned  to  you!" 
This  last  precept  was  not,  perhaps,  for  the  ears 
of  elderly  ladies.  Nevertheless,  obedience  to 
such  precepts  will  make  a  fair  sort  of  gentleman; 
and  G.  G.  was  very  obedient.  Telling  the  truth 
came  easily  to  him,  and  he  was  able  to  swallow 
howls  without  difficulty — very  likely  his  bash- 
fulness  helped  him  in  this  regard.  But  the  taking 
off  his  hat  (which  was  his  uncle's  metaphor  for 
the  tradition  he  had  himself  violated)  came  hard. 
When,  quivering  with  shyness,  he  plunged  out 
of  the  post-office  in  front  of  Mrs.  Dale,  or  when, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  he  stammered  out  "w- won't" 
to  Miss  Maria  Welwood,  who  asked  him  to 
kiss  her;  when,  again  and  again,  his  little  cap 
was  not  lifted  to  Old  Chester  ladies,  he  was  as 
tonished  and  pained  to  receive  what  his  Uncle 
Jim  called  a  "walloping."  "What!"  Jim  roared 
at  him,  "refuse,  when  a  lady  offers  to  kiss  you? 
Shame  on  you,  sir!"  In  his  mild  way,  G.  G.  dis 
approved  of  wallopings  bestowed  for  inadequate 
reasons.  Had  they  come  for  stealing  apples,  or 
playing  truant,  or  not  knowing  his  collect  on 
Saturday  afternoon,  he  would  have  understood 

13 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

them;  but  for  trying  to  escape  from  slow,  lame 
old  ladies — or,  worse  yet!  brisk  old  ladies,  who 
talked  about  kisses! — wallopings  for  such  things 
were  not  reasonable.  G.  G.  used  to  ponder  this. 
But  he  was  certain  of  one  thing — that  he  would 
rather  be  walloped  than  kissed.  He  did  not  really 
resent  punishment.  If  Uncle  Jim  wanted  to 
wallop  him,  why  shouldn't  he?  When  it  was 
over,  he  used  to  shake  himself  like  a  puppy,  and 
(in  spirit)  lap  the  hand  that  beat  him.  He  really 
tried  to  remember  to  take  off  his  hat,  merely 
to  please  his  uncle.  Once,  for  a  whole  week,  he 
carried  his  cap  in  his  hand,  so  that  it  might  surely 
be  off  his  head  at  the  approach  of  a  lady. 

When  he  went  to  the  Academy  for  Youths  in 
Upper  Chester,  his  terror  of  the  sex  did  not  di 
minish.  Probably  the  happiest  period  of  his  youth 
was  when,  just  after  he  graduated,  the  war  broke 
out,  and  he  and  his  uncle,  enlisting  on  the  same 
day,  went  through  four  womanless  years  together. 
Jim  rose  rapidly  in  rank,  but  G.  G.,  tagging  as 
close  behind  him  as  circumstances  permitted, 
got  no  higher  than  orderly  to  his  uncle — a  posi 
tion  he  filled  with  satisfaction. 

And  this  is  where  the  story  of  Old  Chester's 
two  horrifying  marriages  ought  really  to  begin 

Behold  then,  in  the  late  '6o's — two  gentlemen, 
one  very  stout,  with  superb  dark  eyes,  a  goatee, 
and  long,  white  mustaches;  "terribly  old,"  Miss 
Ellen's  girls  called  him;  "at  least  fifty!"  And  one 
young  (well,  youngish;  twenty-five,  perhaps); 

14 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

who  said  "thank  you!"  with  nervous  intensity 
whenever  you  spoke  to  him.  He  also  had  a  mus 
tache,  a  very  little  golden  mustache,  that  you 
could  hardly  see;  very  freckled,  he  was,  and  very 
slim;  preternaturally  grave,  "and,  oh,  so  brave!" 
the  girls  told  one  another;  but  shy  to  a  degree 
that  made  even  Miss  Ellen's  girls  (anxious  to  find 
a  masculine  idol)  laugh.  The  two  gentlemen, 
ruled  by  one  ancient  woman-servant,  Ann,  lived 
near  enough  to  Old  Chester  to  walk  into  the  village 
for  their  mail  or  to  church,  and  far  enough  from 
Upper  Chester  to  drive  to  the  factory  every  day 
in  an  old  buggy,  that  sagged  nearly  to  the  axle 
under  Jim  Williams's  large  bulk  which  pushed  little 
G.  G.  almost  out  over  the  wheel. 

As  they  drove  thus  one  misty  September  morn 
ing,  the  captain  retailed  at  length  the  events  of  a 
business  trip  which  had  taken  him  away  from 
home  for  nearly  a  month,  during  which  time  the 
younger  member  of  the  firm  had  had  to  run 
things  at  the  factory.  "So,"  said  the  captain, 
slapping  a  rein  down  on  his  horse's  flank,  "so 
there's  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  get  a  condenser." 

"We've  had  an  increase  in  the  population  in 
Old  Chester,"  G.  G.  said,  suddenly. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  captain.  "Who 
are  the  happy  parents?" 

G.  G.  blushed  furiously.  "Not  that  kind  of  an 
increase,  sir!  Visitors." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  captain,  again. 
"Who  are  the  unhappy  hosts?" 

15 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"The  Dilworths,"  his  nephew  told  him. 

The  captain  ruminated:  "I  think  we'd  better 
get  the  largest  size?" 

"It's  his  sister,  and  her  niece — I  mean  her  hus 
band's  niece,"  G.  G.  explained. 

"What!"  said  the  captain;  "Mattie?"  He 
whistled  loudly.  "  I  haven't  seen  that  lady  since 
the  days  of  my  unregeneracy."  By  the  time  they 
had  reached  Upper  Chester  the  condenser  had  been 
decided  upon,  and  the  captain  had  been  made 
aware  that  "that  lady's"  husband's  niece  was 
named  Miss  Netty  Brown,  and  that  she  and  Mrs. 
Wharton  were  to  be  with  the  Dilworths  for  two 
months. 

"I  wonder  what  Thomas  has  done  that  the 
Lord  should  punish  him?"  said  Captain  Williams. 

"The  second  size  would  do,"  G.  G.  said. 

"Is  she  pretty?"  his  uncle  asked. 

"Her  hair  is  gray,"  said  G.  G. 

"Lord,  man,  I  mean  the  niece!"  the  captain 
said.  "No;  don't  look  at  both  sides  of  a  cent — 
we  must  have  the  largest  one.  The  aunt  is  pretty 
enough,  I  wager.  That  kind  always  is  pretty." 

By  means  of  talking  at  cross-purposes,  a  good 
deal  of  information  as  to  nieces  and  condensers 
was  exchanged,  and  the  result  was  that  one  mem 
ber  of  the  firm  was  very  thoughtful.  That  night 
the  thought  burst  out: 

"G.  G.,  you  ought  to  be  married." 

"Oh!"  his  nephew  protested,  with  a  shocked 

look. 

16 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

"Yes,"  the  captain  declared;  "men  deserve  to 
get  married — for  their  sins." 

"You  seem  to  have  escaped  chastisement," 
George  Gale  said,  slyly. 

"Well,  yes;  the  Lord  has  been  merciful  to 
me,"  Jim  admitted;  "but  then  I  haven't  deserved 
it  as  much  as  some." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday;  and  as  the  uncle 
and  nephew  walked  to  church,  G.  G.  was  struck 
by  the  splendor  of  the  captain's  apparel;  a  flow 
ered  velvet  waistcoat,  a  frock-coat  with  a  rolling 
velvet  collar,  a  high  beaver  hat  that  was  reserved 
for  funerals !  Morning  service  in  Old  Chester  rarely 
saw  such  elegance.  George  pondered  over  it, 
when  not  looking  at  the  visitors  in  the  Dilworth 
pew.  The  Dilworth  children  had  been  put  in 
the  pew  behind  their  own  to  make  room  for  these 
visitors — for  the  lady  with  gray  hair  took  up  a 
great  deal  of  room.  Mrs.  Wharton,  who  was  in 
half -mourning  for  a  very  recent  husband,  wore  a 
black  satin  mantle,  trimmed  with  jet  fringe  that 
twinkled  and  tinkled  whenever  she  rose  or  sat 
down,  and  especially  when  she  bowed  in  the  creed 
— which  last  made  the  Dilworth  children  gape 
open-mouthed  at  her  back,  for  except  when  Mr. 
Spangler  had  substituted  for  Dr.  Lavendar,  no 
one  had  ever  been  seen  to  do  such  a  thing  in  Old 
Chester!  She  had  on  a  wonderful  bonnet  of 
black  and  white  cr£pe  roses,  and  a  crystal-spotted 
white  lace  veil;  her  black  silk  dress  took  up  so 
much  space  that  Tom  and  his  wife  were  squeezed 

17 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

into  either  corner  of  the  pew,  while  the  other 
guest,  her  niece,  was  almost  hidden  by  flounces. 

Yet  not  so  hidden  that  George  could  not  see  her. 
He  had  watched  her  thus  each  Sunday  during  his 
uncle's  absence;  and  twice,  after  church,  he  had 
found  himself — standing  first  on  one  foot  and 
then  on  the  other — informing  her  that  it  was  a 
pleasant  day.  The  second  time  he  made  this  re 
mark  it  chanced,  unhappily,  to  be  raining,  and 
G.  G.'s  embarrassment  at  realizing  his  blunder 
was  so  excruciating  that  he  had  not  since  gone 
near  enough  to  speak  to  her;  but  how  he  had 
looked  at  her! — at  the  back  of  her  little  head 
in  its  neat  brown  bonnet;  at  the  nape  of  her  deli 
cate  neck,  with  its  fringe  of  small,  light-brown 
curls;  at  her  pretty  figure  when  she  let  her  brown 
mantilla  slip  from  her  shoulders  because  the  church 
was  warm.  Dr.  Lavendar's  sermon  might  have 
been  in  Greek  for  all  the  profit  Mr.  George  Gale 
got  out  of  it! 

At  the  close  of  the  service  Captain  Williams 
said,  carelessly,  " We'll  stop  and  pay  our  respects 
to  the  Dilworths,  my  boy." 

G.  G.  hesitated,  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
and  said,  he — he — he  guessed  he  couldn't,  sir! 
"It's— the  weather,"  he  blurted  out.  Then, 
under  his  uncle's  astonished  eyes,  he  bolted  for 
home  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  the  weather?" 
Jim  Williams  called  after  him;  but  he  frowned  a 
little.  "He  ought  to  have  his  nose  pulled!" 

18 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

he  said  to  himself;  "that  is  no  way  to  treat  a 
female." 

However  Jim  Williams  might  have  treated 
females  in  the  past,  it  was  evident  that  he  knew 
how  to  treat  them  in  the  present.  He  sauntered 
up  to  the  Dilworth  family,  who  were  walking 
decorously  along  the  path  through  the  graveyard, 
and  made  a  very  elegant  bow  to  Mrs.  Dilworth, 
and  a  still  more  elegant  one  to  his  old  lady-love. 
Mrs.  Mattie  Wharton's  bow  was  as  elegant  as 
his  own;  but  whereas  Jim  had  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  Mattie  was  gravity  itself. 

"Come  home  to  dinner,  Jim,"  said  Tom  Dil 
worth;  and  Mrs.  Wharton  said,  archly: 

"If  you  don't  come  I  shall  think  I've  driven 
you  away.  I  hear  you  are  a  woman-hater,  Cap 
tain." 

"Ah,"  said  the  captain,  twisting  his  long  mus 
tache  and  bowing  again  very  low,  "I  am  only 
woman-hated!  And  as  for  you,  I  hear  you  are 
still  breaking  hearts!" 

"And  I  hear  that  you  still  say  naughty  things 
about  my  sex,"  she  retorted,  gaily. 

They  were  really  a  very  handsome  pair  as  they 
stood  there  in  the  graveyard,  exchanging  these 
polite  remarks,  while  all  the  Dilworths,  and  the 
little  niece,  looked  on  in  admiring  silence.  As 
for  dinner — "Indeed  I  will!"  said  Jim;  "I  know 
Mrs.  Dil worth's  Sunday  dinners!"  and  he  bowed 
to  Tom's  good,  dull  Amelia,  who  was  immensely 
pleased  with  his  reference  to  her  dinners.  Then 

19 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

they  all  walked  off  to  the  Dilworth  house,  Mrs. 
Wharton  rustling  along  on  the  captain's  arm, 
and  her  niece  reaching  up  to  take  Mr.  Thomas  Dil- 
worth's  arm,  and  pacing  with  neat  footsteps  at  his 
side. 

G.  G.  at  home,  thinking  of  all  the  fine  things 
he  might  have  said,  cursing  himself  for  an  ass, 
finally  ate  a  cold  and  solitary  meal — for  the  cap 
tain  did  not  appear. 

"No  use  waiting  for  him,"  G.  G.  told  Ann; 
"he  must  have  stayed  for  dinner  at  Mr.  Dil- 
worth's." 

George  Gale  was  awe-struck  at  such  behavior 
on  his  uncle's  part.  "Talk  about  courage!"  he 
said  to  himself — "those  perfectly  strange  ladies!" 
Then  he  had  a  sudden  unpleasant  thought :  Mrs. 
Wharton  was  not  quite  a  strange  lady  to  his 
uncle.  "Can't  be  he'll  make  up  to  her  again, 
now?"  G.  G.  thought;  for,  of  course,  like  every 
body  else  in  Old  Chester,  the  captain's  nephew 
knew  what  had  happened  in  the  unregenerate  days. 
When  Jim  got  home,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he 
found  George  sitting  out  in  the  arbor  in  the  gar 
den,  with  coffee  cold  in  the  pot  on  a  little  table 
beside  him.  It  was  very  pleasant  there  in  the 
arbor,  with  the  sunshine  sifting  through  the 
yellowing  grape-leaves,  and  the  clusters  of  ripen 
ing  Isabellas  within  reach  of  one's  hand;  G.  G. 
could  see  the  glint  of  the  river  in  the  distance, 
and  the  air  was  sweet  with  heliotrope  blossoming 
under  the  dining-room  windows;  but  in  spite 


20 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

of  his  surroundings,  George  Gale  looked  distinctly 
unhappy.  When  Jim  came  tramping  into  the 
arbor,  G.  G.  gave  him  a  keen  and  anxious  glance. 

1  'You  scoundrel!"  said  the  captain;  "what  did 
you  cut  and  run  for?  I  believe  you'd  rather  face 
a  cannon  than  a  pretty  woman!" 

"She  is  handsome,"  G.  G.  conceded,  sadly. 

"So  I  have  to  do  your  work  for  you,"  Jim  con 
tinued;  "yes,  she's  darned  pretty.  And,  for  a 
wonder,  neither  a  fool  nor  a  vixen.  In  my  day, 
a  pretty  girl  was  either  one  or  the  other." 

"Oh,"  said  G.  G.,  brightening;  "you  are  re 
ferring  to  Miss  Brown?" 

"Lord!"  Jim  protested,  "did  you  think  I  was 
training  my  guns  on  the  aunt?  The  niece  will 
never  have  her  looks,  though." 

Again  George's  brow  furrowed.  "She's  got  her 
claws  on  him,"  he  thought. 

"You  are  gone  on  the  niece,  hey?"  said  the 
captain;  "I  know  the  symptoms  when  I  see  'em!" 

"Why,  no,  sir;  oh  no,  sir,"  G.  G.  stammered; 
"not  at  all,  sir." 

"Now,"  said  the  captain,  pulling  his  goatee, 
and  paying  no  attention  to  the  denial,  "you've 
got  to  get  to  work!  They  are  only  going  to  be 
here  a  month.  I  guess  that's  all  Tom  can  stand 
of  Her.  How  merciful  Providence  was  to  me! 
G.  G.,  I  owe  you  much." 

George's  face  cleared.  "I  guess  she  won't 
catch  him,"  he  thought,  hopefully. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is  what  you  have  done 
21 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

in  the  month  they've  been  here?"  said  the  cap 
tain.  "Have  you  attacked  in  front,  or  deployed, 
or  just  laid  siege?" 

G.  G.  thought  of  his  remark  about  the  weather 
and  blushed.  "  I— I—really- 

"Now  listen,"  said  the  captain;  "I  understand 
such  matters,  or  I  did — in  the  days  of  my  unre- 
generacy.  You  don't,  and  I  guess  you  never 
will;  but  that's  no  excuse,  sir,  for  the  way  you 
behaved  this  morning!  A  man  that  slights  a 
young  lady  ought  to  be  booted.  Well;  you  must 
see  the  aunt — do  you  understand?  And  make 
yourself  agreeable  to  her!  I  would  not  advise 
flattery — merely  judicious  disregard  of  truth  will 
put  her  on  your  side.  Not  that  you'll  have 
much  difficulty!  'If  the  court  knows  itself,  which 
it  think  it  do/  I  guess  she'll  be  only  too  glad  to 
get  that  gentle  creature  off  her  hands." 

"But — "  said  G.  G.,  red  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Darn  it!"  said  the  captain,  sharply,  "what 
do  you  want?  Isn't  she  good  enough  for  you? 
What  are  you  waiting  for?  An  oil  princess?  See 
here,  George,  if  I  caught  you  playing  with  that 
young  lady's  feelings,  or  lacking  in  respect— 

"I  have  the  greatest  possible  respect!  Only  I 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  she  has  the 
slightest — " 

"Make  her  have  the  'slightest';  make  her 
have  the  'greatest,'  too.  Make  love,  my  boy, 
make  love!" 

"I  don't  know  how,"  G.  G.  said,  with  agitation. 

22 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

4 'We'll  call  on  'em  to-morrow  afternoon,"  his 
uncle  declared;  "and  you  watch  me  with  her.  I 
know  the  ropes — though  it's  some  time  since  I 
worked  'em.  I'll  show  you  how  to  do  it.  I  un 
derstand  the  sex." 

11  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  G.  G. 

When  they  made  their  call,  George  watched  the 
handsome,  elderly  man  attentively.  If  that  was 
love-making,  it  was  simple  enough — it  consisted 
in  looking  hard  at  the  little,  quiet  girl,  who  wore  a 
buff  cross-barred  muslin  dress,  sprinkled  over  with 
brown  rosebuds;  bending  towards  her,  and  low 
ering  his  voice  when  he  spoke  to  her;  and  most 
of  all,  in  complimenting  her.  Those  compliments 
made  G.  G.'s  flesh  creep!  How  could  he  ever  tell 
a  girl  that  "her  cheek  put  the  damask  rose  to 
shame" ?  that  he  "did  not  know  whether  she  had 
spoken  or  a  bird  had  sung"?  "What  absurd 
things  to  say!"  G.  G.  reflected;  "of  course  he 
knows;  and  to  be  as  red  as  a  rose  would  be  un 
healthy.  I  wonder  if  she  likes  things  like  that? 
I  don't  believe  she  does,  she  looks  so  sensible." 

The  fact  was,  Miss  Netty  did  not  care  much 
for  the  captain's  old-fashioned  and  ponderous 
politeness,  but  she  cared  for  him;  for  his  hand 
some  face,  his  flashing  dark  eyes,  his  grand  man 
ner.  There  is  a  moment — a  very  fleeting  moment 
— when  youth  feels  the  fascination  of  age.  The 
boy  feels  it  at  nineteen;  it  is  then  that  he  falls  in 
love  with  the  lady  who  might  have  dandled  him 
on  her  knee;  a  girl  experiences  it  at  about  twenty- 

23 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

one,  when  worldly  wisdom  is  dazzlingly  attractive. 
The  handsome  man  of  fifty,^or  even  sixty,  pro 
vided  he  is  blas6  enough,  can  bring  the  color  into 
a  girl's  face  and  quicken  the  beating  of  her  heart 
much  more  successfully  than  the  boy  of  her  own 
age.  It  works  the  other  way  round,  too:  Youth 
is  a  beautiful  thing!  How  age  lingers  beside  it, 
cowering  over  the  upspringing  flame  to  warm  the 
chill  current  of  its  blood!  Not  that  either  Jim 
Williams  or  Mrs.  Wharton  was  very  old  or  very 
cold;  but  George  Gale  and  the  little  girl  in  brown 
were  warm  with  life. 

G.  G.  would  have  preferred  to  watch  the  glow 
in  the  girlish  face;  but  he  obeyed  orders,  and 
talked  to  Mrs.  Wharton.  He  was  so  conscious 
of  his  own  part  in  the  broken  romance  of  her  life 
that  he  was  more  than  usually  speechless;  but 
she  helped  him  very  much — she  listened  so  re 
spectfully,  she  asked  his  opinions  so  simply,  she 
was  so  relieved  to  be  told  this  or  that;  ''people 
are  so  ignorant,  you  know,  Mr.  Gale.  I  should 
think  you  would  feel  it,  living  in  a  place  like  Old 
Chester,  where  you  have  so  few  equals."  G.  G., 
blushing  and  protesting,  said  to  himself  that  she 
was  really  very  brilliant;  "no  wonder  Uncle  Jim 
was  soft  on  her,"  he  thought,  admiringly. 

Miss  Netty,  listening  to  Captain  Williams,  was 
also  thinking  of  those  days  when  the  old  gentle 
man  had  made  love  to  her  aunt :  ' '  How  could  he  fall 
in  love  with  aunty !"  she  wondered ;  ' '  he's  so  nice. " 

If  the  captain  or  the  widow  made  any  impression 
24 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

on  either  of  the  two  young  creatures,  it  was  not 
in  the  way  they  supposed.  The  boy  and  the  girl 
were  entirely  impervious  to  the  middle-aged  flat 
tery  expended  upon  them;  they  merely  felt  the 
appeal  of  life  that  has  been  lived.  In  the  brief 
moment  of  farewells,  each  told  the  other,  shyly, 
how  wonderful  their  respective  relations  were. 
But  neither  told  the  other  how  wonderful  they 
were  themselves. 

As  uncle  and  nephew  walked  home,  Jim  with 
a  confident  and  springing  step,  G.  G.  keeping  up 
as  best  he  might,  the  ladies  were  the  only  topic 
of  conversation. 

"Mattie  is  the  same  old  humbug,"  Captain 
Williams  said. 

"I  thought  the  aunt  a  very  agreeable  lady," 
G.  G.  said,  politely. 

" Agreeable  grandmother!  Only  she  isn't  a 
grandmother,  more  shame  to  her!  Every  woman 
ought  to  be  a  grandmother  at  her  age.  No,  sir. 
The  sweet  creature  is  pining  to  have  you  rescue 
her.  I  bet  Mattie  beats  her." 

G.  G.  was  horrified  into  momentary  speech- 
lessness;  then  he  said,  boldly,  "You  are  not 
very  gallant,  sir." 

"I  heard  that  about  twenty-five  years  ago," 
said  the  captain.  "Well;  let  me  be  a  warning 
to  you;  don't  you  trifle  with  Miss  Netty's  feel 
ings!"  Then  he  asked  G.  G.  when  he  was  going  to 
pop?  George  blushed  to  his  ears,  and  refused  to 
commit  himself. 

25 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"Make  up  for  my  errors,  and  be  agreeable  to 
the  aunt,"  said  Captain  Williams;  "when  you've 
soft-soaped  her  enough,  ask  if  you  may  pay  your 
addresses  to  the  little  brown  niece." 

"Why  should  I  not  ask  the — the — young  lady 
herself?"  G.  G.  inquired,  simply. 

"Not  correct,"  said  Captain  Williams;  "be 
sides,  unless  you  flatter  Mattie,  and  get  her  on 
your  side,  she's  capable  of  carrying  the  girl  off, 
just  to  spite  me.  She  hates  me  as  the  devil  hates 
holy  water." 

George  grinned:  "She  may  be  a  devil,  sir,  but 
I  would  never  call  you  holy." 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  said  Jim. 

So  G.  G.  called  at  Tom  Dilworth's  each  after 
noon,  and,  as  long  as  the  frost  spared  it,  took  with 
him  a  big  bunch  of  heliotrope  from  old  Ann's 
garden  under  the  dining-room  windows.  Acting 
on  the  captain's  advice,  he  presented  the  bouquet 
(so  far  as  he  could,  in  his  uncle's  manner)  to  each 
lady,  turn  about.  Sometimes  Jim  Williams  went 
with  him,  and  did  his  best  to  further  the  campaign 
by  telling  Miss  Netty  what  a  fine  fellow  G.  G.  was. 

"I  should  think  he  would  be,  living  with  you!" 
Netty  said,  prettily.  On  the  way  home  that  night, 
Jim  twisted  his  mustache,  and  said  that,  by  gad! 
the  little  witch  had  sense  as  well  as  heart. 

"You  can  see  she's  no  relation  of  Mattie's. 
Mattie  has  no  more  heart  than  a  hollow  potato." 

"I  thought  it  was  you  who  were  deficient  in 
heart  in  the  days  of  your  unregeneracy  ?"  G.  G.  said. 

26 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

"I  was  all  heart,"  Jim  Williams  retorted. 
"Talk  about  the  'gentle'  sex — do  you  remember 
those  females  in  New  Orleans?  Where  would 
you  find  a  man  who  would  behave  as  they  did? 
No,  sir;  I  would  rather  meet  a  tiger  than  a  tigress, 
any  day!"  Then  he  left  generalizations:  'Top, 
my  boy,  pop!  I  can  see  she's  dead  in  love  with 
you." 

G.  G.  glowed;  "Thank  you,  sir!"  he  said. 

He  might  have  said  " thank  you"  every  day, 
for  the  captain  never  failed  to  speak  some  en- 
^couraging  word  about  his  suit.  Yet,  somehow, 
when  it  came  to  the  point  of  action,  G.  G.  quailed. 
He  was  not  afraid  that  Miss  Netty  would  refuse 
him;  they  had  hardly  spoken  to  each  other,  but 
the  free-masonry  of  youth  had  given  him  informa 
tion  on  that  point  which  the  captain's  certainties 
only  corroborated.  No;  he  was  not  afraid  of  be 
ing  rejected  when  he  asked;  he  was  only  afraid 
— until  his  very  backbone  was  cold! — of  asking. 

"They  are  going  away  on  Monday,"  his  uncle 
warned  him;  "you'll  lose  her  yet!  Walk  home 
with  her  to-morrow  from  church,  and  pop !  George, 
if  I  thought  you  were  amusing  yourself  with  this 
young  lady,  I'd— 

"Of  course  I'm  not,"  G.  G.  said,  gruffly. 

"Then  stop  your  shilly-shallying,"  said  the 
captain. 

G.  G.  set  his  teeth.  He  was  only  too  anxious 
to  stop  shilly-shallying. 

The  next  day  he  was  as  beautifully  dressed 
3  27 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

as  the  captain  himself,  and  when  they  came  out 
of  church  (where  he  had  not  heard  one  word  of 
Dr.    Lavendar's   sermon)    he   kept   close   at   his 
uncle's  heels  until,  in  the  churchyard,  they  joined 
the  Dilworths.    Miss  Netty,  seeing  him  approach, 
strayed  a  little  from  the  graveled  path.    An  old 
slate   tombstone,   leaning   sidewise   in   the   deep 
grass  near  the  wall,  suddenly  seemed  to  interest 
her,  and  with  a  fleeting  glance  of  invitation  over 
her  shoulder,  she  wandered  across  to  it,  listening 
all  the  while  for  a  pursuing  footstep.    Her  heart 
was  beating  hard  as  she  stood  by  the  sunken 
green  cradle  of  the  old  grave,  reading  with  un 
seeing  eyes  the  scarcely  decipherable  inscription 
on  the  lichen-mottled  stone;    almost  before  the 
hoped-for  step  sounded  behind  her,   she  turned 
her  glowing  face,— alas!  it  was  only  the  captain, 
who  had  come  to  bring  his  quarry  to  George. 
There  was  something  in  the  child's  sweet  betray 
ing  eyes  and  the  sudden  crimson  flag  in  her  cheeks 
that  touched  Jim  Williams  inexpressibly,  but  made 
him  angry,  too. 

"I'll  boot  that  boy  if  he  doesn't  come  up  to 
the  scratch!"  he  said  to  himself;  then  he  told 
Miss  Netty  that  the  Dilworths  were  waiting  for 
her;  "and  so  is  my  nephew;  the  boy  has  lost  his 
heart,  and  I'm  afraid  his  head  has  gone  with  it, 
for  he  has  left  me  to  escort  you." 

But  before  the  captain  and  Netty  caught  up 
with  the  others,  G.  G.  found  himself  pacing  along 
beside  good,  dull  Mrs.  Dilworth.  So  there  was 

28 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

nothing  for  the  captain  to  do  but  stride  off  with 
Miss  Netty  on  his  arm.  Twice  did  Jim  Williams 
look  over  his  shoulder  to  urge  his  nephew  to  rise 
to  the  occasion. 

"Why  in  thunder  doesn't  he  step  up,  and  give 
me  a  chance  to  fall  back?"  he  thought  to  himself; 
"I  can't  go  and  leave  her  here,  unattended,  in 
the  middle  of  the  street!"  Finally,  in  despair, 
he  paused  and  called  out:  "George,  I  wish  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Dilworth.  You  come  and  escort 
Miss  Netty!" 

G.  G.,  making  some  stammering  apologies  to 
Mrs.  Dilworth,  and  throwing  a  whispered  "  Thank 
you,  sir!"  at  his  uncle,  stepped  up  and  offered  Miss 
Netty  a  trembling  arm.  She  took  it  prettily, 
but  the  ardent  moment  by  the  lichen-covered 
grave-stone  had  passed,  and  Netty  was  as  taci 
turn  as  G.  G.  himself.  They  walked  to  the  Dil- 
worths'  gate  in  blank  silence.  There,  waiting 
for  her  hosts,  Miss  Netty  said,  with  a  little  effort: 

"Your  uncle  is  wonderful!  He  was  telling  me 
such  interesting  stories  of  the  war;  he  said  you 
were  very  brave." 

"It's  easy  enough  to  be  brave  in  war"  said  poor 
G.  G.  Then  they  were  silent  until  the  others 
came  up.  Just  as  they  arrived  Netty,  scarlet 
to  her  little  ears,  burst  out: 

"I  hope  the  Dilworth  girls  will  write  to  me  and 
tell  me  all  the  Old  Chester  news.  I  shall  write 
to  Mary — and  give  her  my  address." 

"Oh,    thank   you!"    G.    G.   said,   passionately. 
29 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  looked  away — 
breathless.  ...  If  only  the  Dilworth  family  and 
Mrs.  Wharton  and  the  captain  had  not  arrived 
at  that  particular  moment!  .  .  . 

"Well!"  said  Jim  Williams,  as  soon  as  he  and 
his  nephew  had  turned  toward  home;  "did  you?" 

"How  could  I?"  poor  George  retorted.  "You 
never  gave  me  any  chance!" 

The  captain  was  dumfounded.  "7  didn't  give 
you  a  chance?  I?  Why,  confound  you,  I  held 
on  to  her  by  main  force  till  you  could  come  up 
and  get  her — and  I  had  to  call  you  at  the  last 
minute.  You  stuck  to  Amelia  Dilworth  like  a 
porous  plaster!  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't 
say  one  word — " 

"Oh  yes!"  George  broke  in;  "yes;  I  did— 
speak.  She  said  she  would  send  Mary  Dilworth 
her  address,  and  I  s-said — " 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said— why,  I  said,  'Th-thank  you.'  " 

"You  said  'thank  you'!  Well,  I  vow,  of  all 
the  donkeys!"  The  captain  was  ready  to  swear 
with  impatience.  "'Thank  you,'  to  a  girl  who 
was  waiting — waiting,  I  tell  you! — to  have  you 
say  'Will  you?'  George,  look  here;  you  are  play 
ing  with  that  girl's  feelings!" 

"I'm  no  such  thing!"  George  Gale  said,  with 
answering  anger.  "I  meant  to  pay  my  addresses 
this  morning,  but  as  I  say,  you — " 

"Oh  yes,  blame  me!  blame  me!"  the  captain 
broke  in;  "you  haven't  the  spunk  of  a  wood- 

30 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

pigeon.  I  tell  you,  rather  than  have  that  child 
slighted,  I'll  marry  her  myself."  His  burst  of 
anger  was  sharp  enough  to  put  an  end  to  G.  G.'s 
stammering. 

"I  can  manage  my  own  affairs,  thank  you." 

G.  G.'s  temper  was  not  so  quick  as  his  uncle's, 
but  it  was  more  lasting.  Jim  always  yielded 
first,  but  he  had  to  grovel  a  little  before  George 
softened. 

"Darn  it,  G.  G.  I  didn't  mean  that  you  were 
not  behaving  properly." 

Silence. 

"Of  course  I  know  you  are  a  white  man, 
but  I—" 

"But  you  thought  I  wasn't?" 

"I  didn't  think  anything  of  the  kind!  Only  I 
don't  want  to  see  that  little  thing  disappointed." 

"She  sha'n't  be  disappointed,"  George  assured 
him,  briefly. 

The  captain  was  relieved  to  be  forgiven,  but 
he  still  scolded:  "You've  lost  your  chance.  Til 
never  take  the  trouble  to  make  a  match  for  you 
again!" 

Of  course  his  determination  did  not  last  twenty- 
four  hours.  When  the  ladies  went  fluttering  out 
of  Old  Chester  on  the  Monday-morning  stage  he 
was  already  planning  what  had  best  be  done. 

"You  must  go  after  'em,  my  young  Lochinvar. 
No;  I  won't  go  with  you.  I've  done  my  best, 
but  it  seems  I  didn't  give  satisfaction.  You  must 
hoe  your  own  potato-patch — and  you  can  go  and 

31 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

see  the  condensers  at  the  same  time.  The  largest 
size  is  my  choice.  You  must  go  after  'em,  George. 
You  must  take  to-morrow's  stage." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  G.  G.  said,  nervously. 

However,  the  next  day's  stage  did  not  carry 
the  ardent  lover.  Things  moved  slowly  in  Old 
Chester;  Mary  Dilworth  did  not  learn  Netty's 
address  for  a  fortnight;  it  was  three  days  later 
before  G.  G.  heard  it,  and  another  three  before  he 
"came  out  of  the  West."  When  he  did,  it  was  a 
great  experience  to  both  men;  the  captain  was 
as  excited  as  if  he  were  a  match-making  mother 
sending  a  girl  into  the  matrimonial  market.  Poor 
G.  G.  was  fairly  dazed  with  instructions:  he  must 
do  that;  he  mustn't  do  this;  most  of  all,  he  must 
remember  to  invite  Mattie  to  stay  at  their  house 
before  the  wedding.  "She'll  like  that,"  said  Jim; 
"she'll  save  money  on  it,  and  she'll  think  she  can 
catch  me  again." 

"God  forbid  I"  said  G.  G.,  under  his  breath; 
but  he  listened  carefully  to  the  endless  details  of 
etiquette  which  had  been  comme  il  faut  in  the  day 
when  the  captain  went  courting — and  how  suc 
cessfully!  For  Mattie  had  "tumbled  at  the  first 
gun,"  Jim  told  his  nephew.  .  .  .  If  G.  G.  only  fol 
lowed  his  directions,  Miss  Netty  could  not  pos 
sibly  withstand  him. 

"Besides,"  said  Jim,  "as  I've  told  you  a  thou 
sand  times,  she  has  no  desire  to  withstand  you. 
'If  the  court  knows  itself,  which  it  think  it  do,' 
she'll  tumble  at  the  first  pop." 

32 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

"Thank  you,  sir!"  said  G.  G.,  grinning  with 
happiness. 

And  so  he  set  forth  upon  his  quest  for  a  bride. 

The  captain  was  not  far  wrong:  the  object  of 
G.  G.'s  devotion  may  not  have  been  ready  to 
" tumble  at  the  first  gun,"  but  Lochinvar  was  ex 
pected.  To  be  sure,  the  little  disappointment  in 
the  graveyard  had  brought  a  puzzled  look  into 
the  soft  brown  eyes;  but  the  captain  had  told  her 
that  George  had  "lost  his  heart,"— and  surely  the 
captain  must  know!  Netty  thought  of  the  cap 
tain  with  a  thrill  of  admiration;  "how  could  he 
have  cared  for  aunty — he  is  such  a  darling!" 

She  and  her  aunt,  after  a  week  of  short  visits 
(which,  to  Mrs.  Wharton's  disgust,  were  not 
stretched  by  appreciative  hosts  into  long  visits), 
were  moving,  on  the  top  of  a  canal-boat,  between 
the  stubbly  fields  and  russet  woods  of  a  wide, 
flat  landscape.  The  ladies  had  raised  their 
fringed  parasols,  for  the  October  sunshine  was 
hot;  the  mule  on  the  tow-path  cast  a  longing 
eye'at  the  cool,  lush  greenness  of  the  weeds  grow 
ing  in  the  water;  sometimes  he  seized  a  mouth 
ful,  and  the  smell  of  the  crushed  stems  mingled 
with  the  odor  of  the  slow  current.  The  water 
lapped  drowsily  against  the  side  of  the  old  boat 
that  nosed  along  through  lily-pads  or  brushed 
under  leaning  willows;  dragon-flies  flashed  about 
its  blunt  bows;  once  a  blackbird  lighted  on  a 
stanchion  and  gave  his  clear,  loud  call;  and  once 
there  was  a  sleepy  hail  from  a  fisherman  sitting 

33 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

on  the  grassy  bank.  In  the  open  country  the 
water  road  stretched  in  the  blazing  sunshine, 
straight  as  a  silver  ribbon;  overhead,  a  white 
cloud,  domed  and  glistening,  hung  motionless; 
except  for  the  monotonous  tug  of  the  mule  on  the 
tow-path,  everything  was  so  quiet,  that  two  of 
the  deck-hands  had  gone  to  sleep.  But  neither 
of  the  ladies  under  the  fringed  parasols  was 
drowsy.  Mrs.  Wharton's  face  had  relaxed  (there 
being  no  gentlemen  on  board)  into  fretful  lines. 
She  was  worrying  acutely  about  the  future,  and 
ever  since  they  had  taken  their  seats  on  the  boat 
she  had  been  talking  about  it  to  Netty.  "I  don't 
know  how  your  uncle  thought  I  could  live  on 
what  he  left  me,"  she  complained,  over  and  over. 
Sometimes  she  reproached  her  living  brother,  in 
stead  of  her  dead  husband.  "You  would  have 
supposed  Thomas  would  have  asked  us  to  spend 
the  winter  with  him;  he  knows  I  have  to  visit 
to  make  both  ends  meet;  perhaps  he  didn't 
want  you." 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Wharton's  conversation 
that  kept  Netty  from  yielding  to  the  somnolence 
of  the  afternoon;  she  was  thinking  such  intent 
little  thoughts  of  the  captain  and  G.  G.  that  she 
really  did  not  hear  the  endless  stream  of  words 
that  kept  on  and  on,  like  water  dripping  from  an 
unclosed  tap.  Netty  was  going  over  in  her  mind 
all  that  "he"  had  said,  and  looked,  and  left  un 
said.  Sometimes  she  blushed  softly,  sometimes 
smiled,  sometimes,  when  the  fretful  voice  beside 

34 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

her  paused,  apparently  for  a  reply,  she  murmured  a 
non-committal  syllable  or  two :  ' '  Really  ?"  "  Dear 
me !"  "  Yes,  indeed ' ' ;  and  the  complaints  dribbled 
on.  Once,  with  shy  effort,  she  asked  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton  about  the  uncle  and  nephew;  and  this  time 
she  listened: 

"Oh  yes;  I  can  tell  you  all  about  them.  Jim 
was  good-looking  enough  when  I  knew  him. 
He's  gone  off,  dreadfully;  he  shows  his  age  very 
much.  He  hadn't  much  money  in  those  days. 
When  he  said  he  was  going  to  undertake  to  sup 
port  this  child — Mr.  G.  G.,  I  mean — of  course  I 
wouldn't  put  up  with  it.  Now  he's  quite  well- 
to-do,  Brother  Tom  says;  and  Mr.  G.  G.  will  get 
it  all.  No;  he  never  married;  he  never  got 
over  it — I  mean  me." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Netty,  "he'd  be  glad,  now,  if 
you'd  forgive  him?" 

"Forgive  him?"  said  Mrs.  Wharton,  sourly. 
"You  mean — take  him?  I  wouldn't  touch  him 
with  a  ten-foot  pole!"  She  blushed  so  hotly  that 
Netty  had  another  thought  of  her  own:  "She 
tried  to  get  him!" 

After  that,  as  the  yellow  afternoon  thickened 
into  dusk,  and  the  form  of  the  mule  on  the  tow- 
path  was  hardly  discernible  against  the  alders 
and  willows,  she  thought  much  of  the  captain, 
and  his  fine  manners  and  his  beautiful  eyes. 
Then  she  wondered  whether  he  would  want  Mr. 
G.  G.  to  live  at  home,  if — if  he  married?  "It 
would  be  pleasant  to  live  at  Captain  Williams' s 

35 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

house,"  she  reflected.  When  a  deck-hand  hung 
a  lighted  lantern  on  the  post  behind  them,  Netty 
got  out  her  little  portfolio  and,  balancing  it  on 
her  knee,  wrote  to  Mr.  Thomas  Dilworth's  young 
est  girl.  It  was  a  very  girlish  letter,  and  of  course 
it  had  a  postscript: 

P.  S. — Aunty  is  going  to  stay  in  Paterson  a  fortnight; 
she  has  friends  there,  the  Boardmans.  If  anybody  asks 
my  ["my"  was  scratched  out,  and  "our"  written  over  it] 
address,  you  can  say  the  Eagle  House — unless  Mrs.  Board- 
man  invites  us  to  stay  with  her. 

Netty  made  many  calculations  as  to  how  many 
days  would  probably  elapse  before  that  post 
script  could  reach  G.  G.  He  would  see  the  Dil- 
worths  at  church  on  Sunday,  and  Mary  would 
tell  him.  After  that  .  .  .  "Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday — "  Netty  counted.  Allowing  a  day 
or  two  to  pack  up  and  get  off,  he  ought  to  arrive 
by  Friday. 

So  it  was  that  when  they  had  disembarked  at 
Paterson,  and  were  settled  in  the  old  Eagle 
House,  just  in  time  to  escape  an  October  storm, 
the  little  brown  girl,  as  the  captain  called  her, 
stood  for  long  hours  with  her  small  nose  pressed 
against  the  grimy  window-pane  of  Mrs.  Wharton's 
room. 

"What  do  you  keep  looking  out  of  the  window 
for?"  her  aunt  said,  fretfully,  from  her  lounge 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Oh,  just  to  see  things,"  said  the  girl,  vaguely, 
staring  into  the  steadily  falling  rain. 

36 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

"There's  nothing  to  see  in  this  horrid  place," 
Mrs.  Wharton  complained;  "I  wouldn't  have 
come  here  if  I  hadn't  supposed  the  Boardmans 
would  have  had  the  decency  to  invite  us  to  stay 
with  them.  I  wrote  Ella  Boardman  I  was  to  be 
here,  two  weeks  ago.  There's  no  excuse  for  not 
inviting  me!  Now,  I  suppose  I've  got  to  stay  in 
this  dreadful  hotel,  because  it  costs  too  much  to 
travel.  If  I  had  any  money  I'd  go  to  Europe. 
I  could,  too,  if  I  had  only  myself  to  provide  for." 

Jim  Williams  had  not  been  very  far  wrong 
when  he  said  that  her  aunt-in-law  beat  poor  little 
Miss  Netty;  to  be  sure,  it  was  with  her  tongue, 
not  with  a  club;  but  the  implement  doesn't 
make  much  difference.  At  any  rate,  the  blow 
was  severe  enough  to  bring  the  tears,  and  they, 
and  the  grime  on  the  window,  blurred  the  street  so 
that  Netty  did  not  see  G.  G.  walking  smartly 
along  the  pavement  and  vanishing  between  the 
granite  columns  of  the  entrance  to  the  hotel. 
She  only  knew  he  had  arrived,  when,  a  card  being 
brought  up-stairs,  Mrs.  Wharton  jumped  from 
her  sofa  and  ran  to  the  mirror,  to  tie  a  ribbon 
here,  stick  a  breastpin  there,  burrow  for  a  clean 
handkerchief,  and  shower  herself  with  perfumery. 

"Why,  who  is  it?"  Netty  said,  turning  round 
from  the  window  to  stare  at  her  aunt  with  soft, 
astonished  eyes. 

"It's  young  Gale.  I  wonder  why  he  has  come 
to  Paterson?  Business,  I  suppose." 

"G.  G.!"    Netty's  heart  beat  hard. 
37 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Mrs.  Wharton  fastened  a  tortoise-shell  chain 
around  her  neck,  and  adjusted  a  curl  at  the  side 
of  her  chignon.  "Of  course  he  would  come  to 
see  me — he  is  most  attentive  to  me,  I'll  say  that 
for  him,"  she  said.  "He's  a  good  deal  of  a  fool, 
but  I'm  glad  to  have  anything  in  trousers — except 
a  nigger  waiter — to  speak  to!"  Mrs.  Wharton 
looked  into  the  glass,  and  put  a  dab  of  powder 
on  her  nose.  "You  needn't  come  down-stairs; 
he  didn't  ask  for  you,"  she  said  from  under  the 
powder-puff. 

The  happy  color  was  streaming  into  Netty's 
face;  her  hands  trembled  so  that  she  had  to 
squeeze  them  tight  together.  ' '  He  will  ask  for  me !" 
she  said  to  herself,  joyously;  and  as  the  door 
slammed  on  Mrs.  Wharton's  flounces,  Netty,  too, 
ran  about  and  tied  fresh  ribbons  at  her  throat, 
and  got  out  her  little  store  of  jewelry.  Then  she 
sat  down  palpitating,  and  waiting  to  be  summoned. 

Down-stairs,  in  the  dark,  narrow  parlor  of  the 
hotel,  all  elegant  in  red  plush,  and  black  walnut, 
and  long  mirrors,  and  cold  marble-topped  tables, 
G.  G.  was  standing,  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other.  He  took  Mrs.  Wharton's  voluble  hand, 
but  looked  eagerly  beyond  her  for  a  little  figure- 
but  no  Netty  followed  in  that  rustling  wake. 
It  was  hard  for  him  to  turn  his  expectant  eyes 
from  the  door  to  gaze  into  the  handsome  pow 
dered  face  under  the  gray  hair ;  but  he  remembered 
his  uncle's  directions:  "Soft-soap  the  aunt."  Ac 
cordingly  he  produced  a  bunch  of  flowers  that  he 

33 


AH,    MR.    GALE,    THE   WEATHER    SEEMED    DREARY    ENOUGH    UNTIL 


YOU   CAME! 


'TURN   ABOUT' 

had  been  holding  behind  him,  and  said  the  weather 
was  fine,  " finer,  I  mean,  than  yesterday;  it  isn't 
raining  so  hard  to-day,"  he  added,  desperately. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Gale,  the  weather  seemed  dreary 
enough  until  you  came!"  said  Mrs.  Wharton. 
"Do  sit  down  and  cheer  me  up!  This  is  such  a 
lonely  place.  I  don't  know  why  I  ever  left  dear 
Old  Chester!" 

G.  G.,  knowing  Mr.  Thomas  Dilworth,  knew 
quite  well  why  she  had  left  Old  Chester;  but  of 
course  that  was  not  a  thing  to  say.  "You  ought 
to — to — to  come  back,"  he  said,  bowing  in  a  way 
that  would  not  have  disgraced  his  Uncle  Jim 
himself. 

"If  I  only  could,"  she  sighed;  "the  home  of 
my  girlhood!  Oh,  such  happy,  happy  days!  But, 
alas,  dear  Mr.  G.  G.,  I  am  not  free.  I  have  a  bur 
den  to  bear.  My  husband's  niece  has  to  live 
with  me,  and  of  course  I  can't  ask  my  brother  to 
receive  her." 

"Oh,"  said  G.  G.,  ardently,  "I  am  sure  he 
would  be  glad  to  receive  her;  I  should  be!" — then, 
still  obeying  the  captain,  he  added  with  vast  sig 
nificance — "for  your  sake." 

Mrs.  Wharton  simpered,  and  shook  an  arch 
finger  at  him:  "Flatterer!" 

"I  mean  it,"  George  said,  stoutly;  he  was  so 
much  in  earnest  he  hardly  stammered  at  all. 
"Indeed,  I  am  here  to  ask  you  to  come  back  to 
Old  Chester,  w-with  me.  I  want  you  to  come 
right  to  our  house." 

39 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Oh,  dear  Mr.  G.  G!"  she  protested;  "how 
good  you  are!  But  the  world  is  so  censorious," 
she  sighed.  "You  know  once,  when  I  was  a  little, 
tiny,  tiny  girl,  that  handsome  uncle  of  yours — ' 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  George  offered 
up  the  captain :  "He  has  repented,  ma'am,  he  has 
re-re-repented.  And  he  wants  you  to  come  to  visit 
us — with  Miss  Netty — almost  as  much  as  I  do." 

Mattie  Wharton  fairly  gasped  with  astonish 
ment.  Jim  had  sent  his  nephew  to  plead  for  him? 
The  color  rose  sharply  under  the  powder;  she 
stammered  almost  as  badly  as  G.  G.  himself: 

"Jim — w-wants  mef 

George  Gale  was  shy,  but  he  was  not  a  fool; 
he  said  to  himself:  "Good  Lord,  I've  put  my  foot 
into  it!  Ah,"  he  said,  trying  wildly  to  take  his 
foot  out  of  it,  "it  is  I  who  want  you,  not  my 
uncle;  I,  who-who — "  he  floundered. 

"F0W/"  Mrs.  Wharton  said,  still  more  as 
tounded. 

"Yes!"  G.  G.  said,  ardently.  This,  he  thought, 
was  the  moment  to  bring  in  Netty's  name,  for 
certainly  there  had  been  enough  soft-soap.  "Yes; 
I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  Miss  Netty's 
aunt;  admiration  and — and  affection." 

"Oh,  how  good  of  you  to  offer  to  share  my  bur 
dens  !"  she  said ;  she  was  so  confused  by  this  whirli 
gig  of  ideas  that  she  really  did  not  know  what  she 
said.  Young  Gale  had  come  on  his  own  account? 
In  her  perfectly  honest  amazement  she  drew  back 
— but  he  caught  at  her  hand. 

40 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

"My  affection,  my  esteem—"  he  repeated. 

"But  your  years,"  she  gasped;  "you  are  so 
young!" 

"Young?  No:  I  am  not  young;  I  am  quite 
old  enough  to  be  married— if  you  will  only  con 
sent,"  he  insisted. 

"But — "  she  protested,  dumfounded. 

"Why,  you  yourself  are  but  a  very  few  years 
my  senior,"  he  challenged  her,  quite  rakishly. 

Mattie  was  silent;  she  knew  just  how  many 
years  his  senior  she  was.  Twenty-five  years  ago, 
when  she  was  eighteen,  she  and  Jim  had  parted* 
on  account  of  the  "brat"— the  brat  who  was 
now  asking  her  to  marry  him!  Well,  what  is 
eighteen  years  to  a  man  in  love?  In  a  way,  he 
was  still  a  "brat";  a  shy,  stammering  young  man 
— young  enough  to  be  her  son;  but  what  differ 
ence  did  shyness  and  silence  and  youth  make, 
compared  to  a  home!  "Oh,"  she  said,  "I  do  want 
a  home!" 

"You  shall  have  it,  as  long  as  I  have  one  my 
self,"  cried  G.  G. 

The  captain  would  never  have  known  his 
timid  pupil.  George  seized  both  the  lady's  hands 
and  ogled  her  with  bold  eyes.  Mattie  looked 
into  them,  gulped,  and  without  a  moment's  warn 
ing — put  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"I— I  will,"  she  said. 

G.  G.'s  mouth  dropped  open;  he  looked  down 
at  the  gray  head  tinder  his  chin,  and  lifted  ter 
rified  hands  as  though  to  push  it  away. 

41 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"I  will,"  Mattie  whispered  again,  softly. 
"Will — what?"  the  boy  gasped;    and  slid  his 
shoulder  from  under  the  drooping  head — but  it 
slid  along,  too. 

"Marry  you,"  said  the  widow. 
In  her  happiness  she  forgot  the  publicity  of 
the  hotel  parlor,  and  tried  to  put  her  arms  around 
him;  he  felt  her  hair  against  his  cheek,  her  per 
fumery  reeked  in  his  nostrils,  her  breast  panted 
against  his  shoulder.  The  shock  of  it  all  made 
him  absolutely  dumb.  He  tried  to  speak,  to  loosen 
the  clinging  hands,  to  draw  far,  far  away,  but  it 
was  impossible.  She  clung  to  him,  murmuring 
that  she  had  never  expected  to  love  again — but 
he  was  so  good,  so  chivalrous! 

"Yes,  G.  G.;  I  will  marry  you,"  she  said. 
G.  G.  groaned  aloud.    Then  he  got  on  his  feet, 
brushed  frantically  at  a  streak  of  powder  on  the 
lapel  of  his  coat,  and  without  a  word  dashed  from 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Wharton  sat  up,  smoothed  her  hair,  and 
wiped  some  very  genuine  tears  from  her  eyes; 
"I  never  dreamed  he  was  in  love  with  me,"  she 
thought.  "It  is  wonderful!"  And  yet  perhaps 
not  so  very  wonderful?  She  got  up  and  went 
over  to  the  long  mirror  between  the  windows; 
stiff  red  moreen  curtains  almost  hid  it,  but  she 
parted  them,  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
into  the  shimmering  darkness  of  the  glass.  "With 
my  color,"  she  reflected,  "I  must  be  attractive 
to  anybody!  No;  age  doesn't  make  a  bit  of  dif- 

42 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

ference."  Her  gray  hair  was  really  very  handsome, 
too.  Nobody  could  deny  that. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  her  dingy  room,  so  excited 
that  she  could  hardly  breathe. 

" Netty!"  she  cried,  her  lips  a  little  blue,  and 
her  hand  on  her  panting  heart;  "I  am  engaged 
to  be  married!" 

Netty  gaped  at  her,  speechless. 

1  'Yes;  to  G.  G.!  Just  think;  he  followed  me 
here  to  propose  to  me.  Oh,  he  urged  me  so,  I 
simply  couldn't  refuse  him.  And  he  says  he'll 
look  after  you — doesn't  that  show  his  devotion!" 
She  rustled  over  to  her  bureau,  and  stood  star 
ing  at  the  buxom  reflection  in  the  mirror.  "Of 
course,  my  hair — "  she  began,  but  turned  at  a 
little  sound. 

Netty  had  burst  out  crying. 

Although  it  did  not  actually  take  place  in  Old 
Chester,  this  was  the  first  of  our  horrifying  wed 
dings — for,  of  course,  from  G.  G.'s  point  of  view, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  face  the  music.  That 
was  his  Uncle  Jim's  first  precept:  "Don't  howl!" 
— in  other  words,  face  the  music.  He  had  made 
a  fool  of  himself — he  must  take  the  consequences. 
Just  at  first,  he  tried  his  terrified  best  to  evade 
them.  ...  He  went  back  to  the  Eagle  House  that 
evening  to  say — well,  he  really  didn't  know  what 
he  meant  to  say.  In  point  of  fact,  he  did  not  get 
the  chance  to  say  anything.  Mattie,  coy,  pal 
pitating,  effusive,  said  everything  for  him;  and 
4  43 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

the  first  thing  she  said  was  that  they  had  better 
be  married  at  once. 

G.  G.  gasped.  Could  Jim  Williams's  nephew 
slap  the  female  cheek  thus  held  out  to  him? 

"I  didn't  suppose  I  could  love  again,"  said 
Mattie;  "but  if  you  prefer  me,  with  my  prema 
turely  gray  hair,  to  younger  and  more  foolish  per 
sons,  why  should  I  hesitate?  I  will  dye,  if  you 
don't  like  it." 

The  threat  made  him  shiver.  "No— no,"  he 
stammered;  "you  mustn't  think  of  anything  like 
that;  "only  I— I—" 

"I  love  you,"  Mattie  said — and  very  likely  she 
did.  Women  of  forty-three  have  been  known  to 
think  "anything  in  trousers"  attractive.  "I  sup 
pose  you'll  give  me  no  peace  unless  I  promise  to  be 
married  at  once?"  she  said,  archly.  "Oh,  I  know 
you  gentlemen!"  she  added,  shaking  her  finger 
at  him. 

Mattie  was  very  arch.  Did  she  know  the  truth  ? 
One  wonders!  We  were  never  able  to  make  up 
our  minds  about  that.  Certainly,  when  she  ac 
cepted  Netty's  lover  she  honestly  supposed  he 
was  her  own;  G.  G.  himself  never  doubted  the 
sincerity  of  that  belief.  But  Mattie  was  too 
astute  a  person  to  be  fooled  very  long,  and  when 
she  said,  ardently,  that  she  supposed  she  must 
submit  to  his  impatience  she  must  by  that  time 
have  been  aware  of  the  actual  state  of  affairs. 
At  any  rate,  her  haste  implied  that  she  was  afraid 
to  let  him  out  of  her  sight.  She  betrayed  this 

44 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

when  she  said  something  shrewish  about  Jim 
Williams:  "That  naughty  uncle  of  yours  might 
try  to  separate  us;  he  is  very  dear  and  hand 
some,  but  I  must  say  he  is  just  a  tiny,  tiny  bit 
jealous!  I  noticed  it  in  Old  Chester." 

G.  G.  bit  his  finger-nail  speechlessly. 

"Because,  you  know,  when  I  was  just  a  little, 
tiny  girl,  he  was  dreadfully  in  love  with  me;  but 
I  wouldn't — wouldn't — "  Mattie,  looking  side- 
wise  at  G.  G.,  and  wondering  if  he  knew  just  why 
she  "wouldn't,"  did  not  know  just  how  to  end 
that  sentence;  so  she  said  again,  firmly,  "I 
wouldn't."  Then  she  leaned  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  and  whispered,  "We  can  be  married 
here,  and  go  back  to  Old  Chester  after  our  wed 
ding  trip." 

G.  G.  had  had  chivalry  enough  to  "face  the 
music,"  but  he  had  no  voice  to  say  "Yes."  He 
only  nodded,  and  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

Mrs.  Wharton  herself  attended  to  details;  she 
got  the  license,  and  found  out  where  the  min 
ister  lived,  and  bought  (fearfully,  for  sometimes 
it  turns  your  hair  green) ;  a  bottle  of  Dr.  Hounard's 
hair-restorer.  "I'll  try  it  on  a  back  lock,"  she 
said  to  herself;  and  hid  the  bottle  from  poor 
little  crushed  Netty. 

G.  G.  did  not  see  Netty  in  the  two  days  before 
the  wedding.  Her  tears  had  roused  Mrs.  Whar 
ton 's  jealousy  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and 
she  said,  brutally,  that  the  girl  could  keep  to 
herself. 

45 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"We  don't  want  you,"  said  Mrs.  Wharton; 
"and  I  don't  know  anybody  who  does!"  Netty 
cried  silently.  "As  for  your  future,"  her  aunt 
meditated,  "he's  very  generous,  and  I  am  sure 
he'll  give  you  an  allowance.  He  is  perfectly  crazy 
about  me,  and  will  do  anything  for  me.  He  said 
he  would  share  the  burden  of  you." 

"He  needn't  trouble  himself!"  said  Netty,  the 
angry  color  burning  her  tears  away  in  a  flash. 
She  did  not  go  to  the  minister's  with  the  bride  and 
groom ;  perhaps  if  she  had  G.  G.  might  somehow 
have  escaped  from  the  coil.  But  she  did  not 
appear,  and  Mattie  and  the  "brat"  were  pro 
nounced  man  and  wife. 

When  Mrs.  Gale,  returning  to  her  room  to 
dress  for  her  wedding  journey,  looked  keenly  into 
the  mirror,  she  could  not  help  simpering  with 
pleasure.  She  was  certainly  handsome,  despite 
her  still  undyed  hair;  and,  "if  he  prefers  my  ex 
perience  and  knowledge  to  the  flightiness  of  some 
silly  girl,  who  can  blame  him?"  she  said  to  her 
self  again. 

But  all  the  same  she  made  up  her  mind  that  he 
should  not  be  exposed  to  the  allurement  of  flighti 
ness.  "Netty  can  hunt  up  some  of  her  own  rela 
tions,"  she  told  her  husband.  As  for  Netty's 
immediate  affairs,  "there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
send  her  to  my  brother  Tom  until  I  find  some 
body  who  will  take  her  in — somebody  on  whom 
she  has  a  claim.  She  certainly  has  none  on  you!" 

She  said  this  to  G.  G.  when  they  started  out 
46 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

on  a  wedding  trip  the  details  of  which  she  had 
swiftly  arranged.  The  only  thing  the  young, 
dazed  husband  did  of  his  own  volition  was  to 
write  a  letter  to  his  uncle: 

When  I  approached  the  subject  of  marriage,  Mrs.  Wharton 
misunderstood  me,  and  accepted  me  herself.  She  spoke 
as  if  she  preferred  death  rather  than  the  loss  of  the  affection 
she  supposed  I  had  offered  her.  Of  course  I  could  not  un 
deceive  her.  We  were  married  this  morning,  and  will  re 
turn  to  Old  Chester  next  week. 

Your  ob't  nephew, 

G.  GALE. 

Jim  Williams,  reading  this  brief  and  tragic 
letter,  almost  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy.  When 
he  got  his  breath  and  stopped  swearing,  he  said, 
"Mrs.  Mattie  Gale  can  'return  to  Old  Chester/ 
but  I'll  be  damned  if  she  returns  to  my  house!'* 
Then  he  swore  some  more. 

"He  has  disgraced  himself,"  he  told  Tom  Dil- 
worth,  "and  he'll  get  his  deserts — saving  your 
presence,  Thomas.  No;  I  haven't  an  ounce  of 
sympathy  for  him.  But  what  is  going  to  become 
of  that  pretty  creature  that  he  has  insulted?" 

"My  beloved  sister  is  sending  her  to  stay  with 
me  until  some  other  arrangements  can  be  made," 
Tom  Dilworth  said;  he  was  as  angry  as  G.  G.'s 
uncle,  but  they  both  observed  the  proprieties, 
and  did  not  mention  to  each  other  the  name  of  the 
"lady"  who  had  made  all  the  trouble;  they  both 
used  a  certain  word  with  regrettable  frequency, 
but  they  added  "it,"  instead  of  "her." 

47 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"See  here,"  said  the  captain;  "I  won't  have 
that  child  slighted — she  shall  come  and  live  with 
me!" 

Tom  Dilworth  raised  his  eyebrows:  "My  dear 
fellow,  this  is  a  censorious  world,  and — " 

The  captain  broke  in  with  the  regrettable  word. 
But  of  course  Thomas  was  right. 

"I'll  take  care  of  the  little  thing,"  Tom  said; 
but  he  looked  harassed.  The  Dilworths  had  three 
youngsters  of  their  own,  and  not  much  money, 
so  extra  bread-and-butter  and  petticoats  meant 
harder  work  for  Tom  and  more  care  for  his  anxious 
Amelia. 

The  captain  walked  off,  fuming  and  pulling  his 
goatee.  He  had  already  sent  a  letter  to  his  neph 
ew,  which  made  poor  G.  G.  curl  up  as  if -he  were 
being  skinned: 

The  Tavern  is  open  to  any  fool  who  can  pay  his  board. 

My  house  is  not. 

J.  WILLIAMS. 

So,  when  the  bride  and  groom  (preceded  by 
Miss  Netty,  sent  like  an  express  parcel  to  Tom 
Dilworth)  came  back  to  Old  Chester,  it  was  Van 
Horn's  roof  that  sheltered  them,  just  as  it  had 
sheltered  G.  G.  when,  unheralded  and  undesired, 
he  had  arrived  in  Old  Chester  twenty-five  years 

before. 

When  the  stage  drew  up  at  the  Tavern  door  in 
the  November  dusk,  G.  G.,  extending  a  lax  hand 
to  his  wife,  assisted  her  to  alight.  "Get  supper 

48 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

for  Mrs.  Wharton,"  he  said  to  Van  Horn,  who 
snickered;  the  late  Mrs.  Wharton  smilingly  cor 
rected  her  husband.  G.  G.  nodded  dully;  "For 
Mrs.  Gale,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  out,  ma'am," 
he  explained.  And,  supperless,  he  went  straight 
to  Jim  Williams's  house. 

The  older  man,  who  looked  really  old  in  this 
last  week,  was  evidently  expecting  him,  for  he 
had  been  pacing  about  the  dining-room,  pulling 
his  goatee,  glancing  sometimes  out  of  the  window, 
and  sometimes  at  the  supper-table,  laid  very  ob 
viously  for  one.  At  G.  G.'s  step  on  the  porch 
he  became  elaborately  nonchalant. 

"Oh,  you?"  he  said;  and,  turning  his  back  on 
his  nephew,  sat  down  at  the  table,  making  a  great 
clatter  with  his  knife  and  fork. 

"I  came,  sir,"  said  G.  G.,  standing  in  the  door 
way  behind  his  uncle,  "to  know  what  you  want 
to  do?" 

"Do?"   said  the  captain,  buttering  a  slice  of 
bread  rapidly.    "When?    Now?    Eat  my  supper !" 
"I  mean,"  said  George  Gale,   "what  do  you 
want  me  to  do?" 

"I  don't  care  a  tinker's  dam  what  you  do. 
Hang  yourself  if  you  want  to." 

"I  mean,"  G.  G.  persisted,  calmly,  "about  the 
business.  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  be  in 
business  with  me  any  longer?" 

Jim  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  drank  it  quickly, 
choked,  spluttered,  and  swallowed  a  tumbler  of 
water.  "As  for  business,"  he  said,  "so  long  as  a 

49 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

man  doesn't  tamper  with  the  till  and  attends  to 
his  job,  his  private  honor  is  nothing  to  me.  You 
can  get  out  of  the  firm,  or  stay  in  it,  just  as 
you  choose.  I'm  willing  to  do  business  with  a 
nigger,  or  a  Unitarian,  or  a  homeopathist.  But 
my  table" — he  upset  the  cream  -  pitcher,  and 
sopped  the  flood  up  with  a  trembling  hand,— 
"my  table  and  my  roof  are  for  gentlemen." 
He  slashed  at  the  cold  meat  on  his  plate  and  set 
his  teeth. 

G.  G.  put  on  his  hat  and  stepped  back  into  the 
hall.  The  captain,  sitting  tensely,  his  fork  half 
way  to  his  mouth,  heard  the  boy  fumbling  at 
the  knob  of  the  front  door.  The  door  opened — 
slammed  shut.  Jim  was  on  his  feet  with  a  bound; 
he  flung  up  the  dining-room  window  and  roared 
after  the  vanishing  figure: 

"George!" 

G.  G.  did  not  turn.  The  captain  put  a  leg  over 
the  low  sill  and  called  again.  He  could  hear  the 
retreating  steps  among  the  dead  leaves. 

"George!  You  ass!"  he  said;  and,  leaping  out 
of  the  window  into  Ann's  bed  of  heliotrope,  all 
wilted  and  blackened  by  the  frost,  he  ran,  nap 
kin  in  hand,  down  the  path.  Catching  up  to 
G.  G.  at  the  gate,  he  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"Don't  be  a  bigger  donkey  than  you  have  to 
be,"  he  said.  "Come  back." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation;  then  G.  G. 
turned.  Jim  preceded  him;  they  stepped  across 
the  heliotrope-bed,  each  put  a  leg  over  the  window- 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

sill,  and  both  sat  down  at  the  table,  set  so  carefully 
for  one. 

"Ann!"  James  Williams  called,  loudly,  "bring 
Mr.  G.  G.  his  supper!"  As  the  old  woman  came 
in  with  another  plate  and  knife  and  fork,  the  senior 
partner  said,  briefly,  "How  soon  will  they  ship 
the  condenser?" 

There  was  no  apology  on  either  side,  but  after 
a  long  talk  about  business  there  was  one  explana 
tory  moment: 

"Van  Horn  will  make  you  comfortable?" 

G.  G.  nodded. 

"As  for  that — that  woman,"  Williams  began, 
but  George  Gale  interrupted  him. 

"That  lady  is  my  wife.  We  will  not  refer  to 
her,  sir." 

The  captain  looked  down  at  his  plate  silently; 
then  he  leaned  over  and  struck  G.  G.  on  the 
shoulder.  "Damn  it,  you're  a  man,"  he  said, 
huskily.  "Well,"  he  added,  "hereafter  we'll 
shinny  on  our  own  side.  That's  understood." 

It  was  understood.  So  far  as  G.  G.  could  re 
member,  the  captain  never  attempted  to  shinny 
on  his  nephew's  preserves.  That  was  the  first 
and  last  time  Mattie  was  ever  referred  to  between 
them.  But  Netty  was  referred  to.  ... 

"G.  G.,"  said  the  captain  one  day,  some  months 
after  Old  Chester's  first  horrifying  wedding,  "in 
my  youth  I  endeavored  to  give  you  an  aunt.  I 
failed.  In  my  old  age  I  am  more  fortunate." 

G.  G.  was  working  very  hard  in  those  days, 
Si 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

and  perhaps  he  was  more  than  usually  dull;  at 
any  rate,  he  only  looked  up  at  his  uncle  and 
blinked.  He  asked  no  questions,  and  no  further 
information  was  offered.  So  that  the  next  morn 
ing,  when  Old  Chester  buzzed  with  astonishment 
at  an  announcement  in  the  Globe,  G.  G.  was  ap 
parently  as  surprised  as  anybody  else: 

Married:  At  the  Rectory,  Miss  Annette  Brown  to  Captain 
James  Williams. 

Mattie  Gale,  in  bed,  in  curl-papers,  reading  the 
paper  over  her  late  and  uncomfortable  breakfast- 
tray,  cried  out  with  astonishment;  then  gasped 
and  put  her  hand  on  her  side,  and  called  to  Mrs. 
Van  Horn. 

When  she  got  her  breath  she  burst  into  floods 
of  tears;  "Oh,  the  little  minx!"  she  said.  When 
George  came  home  to  dinner,  she  demanded, 
viciously,  "What  do  you  think  of  it?  Everybody 
is  perfectly  horrified!  He  is  thirty  years  older 
than  she  is.  I  call  it  disgusting.  I  bet  anything 
she  forced  him  into  it!" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  her  husband 
looked  at  her.  "A  young  woman  doesn't  have  to 
do  that,"  he  said,  slowly.  Of  course  it  was  out 
rageous  of  him,  but  it  was  the  only  time  in  their 
whole  polite  and  dismal  married  life  that  the 
worm  turned.  As  for  the  woman  who  deserved 
those  stabbing  words,  she  blanched  into  silence. 

George  Gale  never  took  anybody  into  his  con 
fidence  in  regard  to  his  opinion  of  his  uncle's  mar- 

52 


"TURN   ABOUT' 

riage — the  second  of  our  horrifying  weddings; — 
unless,  perhaps,  two  words  to  Jim  Williams  might 
be  called  confidential.  The  morning  that  the  news 
came  out,  Jim  had  put  a  copy  of  the  Globe  down 
on  his  nephew's  desk,  and  pointed  a  big  finger 
at  the  notice. 

''Something  had  to  be  done,"  he  said.  "You 
couldn't;  so  I  had  to.  She  couldn't  stay  on  at 
Tom's;  Amelia  means  well,  but  the  little  creature 
saw  she  was  a  burden,  and  was  worrying  herself 
to  death."  % 

G.  G.  got  up  from  his  office-chair  and  stood 
perfectly  silent,  looking  at  his  boots.  Then  he 
put  out  his  hand.  His  uncle  grasped  it,  and  they 
shook  hands.  When  George  sat  down  again  he 
worked  at  the  big  ledger  nearly  an  hour  without 
speaking.  Then  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  and 
said,  "Thank  you,  sir." 

After  that,  business — which  may  be  done  with 
a  nigger  or  a  Unitarian  or  anybody  else — absorbed 
them  both. 

In  the  next  few  years  G.  G.  came  often  to  his 
uncle's  house,  and  he  and  his  "aunt"  were  very 
simple  and  honest  friends;  but  Netty  never 
called  on  her  "niece,"  nor  did  Mrs.  Gale  ever  see 
her  "uncle"  when  she  chanced  to  pass  him  in  the 
street. 

...  If  we  knew  about  the  future,  betting  would, 
of  course,  lose  its  interest;  yet  if.  Old  Chester 
had  only  taken  the  odds  on  those  two  deplorable 
weddings  it  would  have  been  money  in  its  pocket ! 

S3 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

Mrs.  George  Gale  died  within  the  year,  so  that 
her  marriage  did  not  have  time  to  turn  out  badly 
— at  any  rate  so  far  as  the  public  knew,  for  G.  G., 
who  had  " taken  off  his  hat  to  a  lady,"  never 
howled;  he  may  not  have  "told  the  truth"  about 
his  wedding,  at  least  to  Old  Chester,  but  cer 
tainly  he  accepted  his  "damning"  like  a  Spartan. 
Jim  and  his  little  girl  lived  as  amicably  as  an  old 
dog  and  puppy  for  five  or  six  years  more. 

Then  one  day  Jim,  who  had  been  laid  up  for 
two  or  three  months  with  confounded  rheumatism, 
had  a  talk  with  Dr.  Willy  King.  ...  At  the  end  of 
it  he  whistled. 

"Sure  of  it,  Willy?" 

Willy  looked  very  much  upset.  "I'm  afraid  so, 
James." 

"Jiminy!"  said  the  captain,  gravely.  "Queer. 
I  never  thought  of  that.  I  suppose  I  expected  to 
live  for  ever." 

He  lived  a  month.  His  little  girl  cried  her  heart 
out  in  those  last  days,  and  he  watched  her  with 
his  kind,  amused  eyes.  At  the  very  end  he  said  a 
word  or  two  to  G.  G. : 

"Your  turn,  George.  Turn  about V  .  .  .  His 
voice  flagged;  G.  G.  put  his  ear  to  the  failing  lips: 
"fair  play." 

And  George,  very  tearful,  blowing  his  nose 
hard,  stammered  out  something  that  sounded 
like: 

"Th-tkank  you,  sir." 


THE    HARVEST    OF    FEAR 


THE  HARVEST  OF  FEAR 


WHEN  it  comes  to  bombshells,  there  are  few 
that  can  be  more  effective  than  that  small, 
flat,  frail  thing,  a  letter.  Its  destructive  potenti 
alities  cannot  be  guessed  from  its  exterior.  No 
ominous  tick  or  pungent  odor  betrays  it.  It  does 
not  hide  in  secret  places;  it  shows  itself  openly, 
lawfully,  in  a  pigeonhole  in  the  post-office,  on  the 
desk  in  a  shop.  It  falls  through  the  slit  of  the  hall 
letter-box,  and  lies  among  its  harmless  brethren 
— bills,  or  invitations,  or  news  of  other  people's 
affairs.  How  innocent  it  looks,  how  unimportant ! 
.  .  .  Then,  in  an  instant — disaster!  ruin!  the 
House  of  Life  falling  about  our  ears!  A  man 
opens  that  non-committal  oblong — and  the  under 
pinnings  of  existence  crumble:  his  partner  has 
committed  suicide,  his  wife  has  eloped,  his  child — 
It  was  news  of  his  child  that  broke  Lewis  Hal- 
sey's  life  into  ugly  ruins.  The  bombshell  lay  on 
the  breakfast-table.  The  two  Halsey  girls — so- 
called  at  thirty-five  and  forty — had  not  yet  taken 
their  seats;  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  them 
to  sit  down  to  breakfast  before  their  father,  and 

57 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

it  never  occurred  to  their  father  to  be  prompt 
on  their  account.  Had  he  suddenly  displayed 
such  consideration,  these  two  ladies  would  not 
have  known  what  to  make  of  it.  It  was  a  matter 
of  course  that  he  should  do  as  he  pleased  about 
his  meals,  about  their  own  meek  lives,  about 
everything — except,  indeed,  about  their  brother 
Nicholas;  he  had  never  done  as  he  pleased  with 
Nick.  In  confidential  moments  the  two  sisters, 
a  little  awed  at  their  temerity  in  saying  as  much, 
even  to  each  other,  admitted  that  dear  father 
had  never  ruled  Nick.  But  parental  arrogance, 
or  authority — Nick  used  one  word  and  his  sis 
ters  the  other — did  not  trouble  the  Misses  Halsey. 
In  his  own  house  Lewis  Halsey  was  as  amiable 
as  a  well-gorged  tiger.  He  was  very  good  to  his 
daughters— as  long  as  they  told  the  truth  and 
let  their  wishes  run  with  his  will.  Deceit  in  any 
form  roused  his  contempt  to  a  degree  that  made 
the  expression  of  it  quite  shocking  to  feminine 
ears.  As  for  his  will — the  ladies  of  his  household 
knew  its  quality  too  well  to  tamper  with  it.  They 
had  learned  their  lesson  some  twenty  years  be 
fore.  Sadie,  then,  had  kicked  over  the  traces 
for  a  few  weeks,  about  some  young  jackass  who 
had  had  the  audacity  to  write  a  love-letter  to  her; 
by  accident  her  surreptitious  answer  fell  into  her 
father's  hands,  and  his  outburst  of  anger  left  her 
completely  and  permanently  a  coward.  "I  don't 
care  for  that  kind  of  a  son-in-law,  thank  you!" 
said  Lewis  Halsey;  and  he  added,  complacently, 

58 


THE    HARVEST    OF    FEAR 

"I  think  this  will  be  the  last  deceit  practised  un 
der  my  roof!"  About  the  time  that  he  broke  the 
will  of  his  oldest  child  he  squelched  that  of  his 
younger  daughter,  which  had  been  to  go  to  a 
woman's  college.  "  We'll  have  no  blue-stockings, 
my  dear,  if  you  please.  A  girl's  business  is  to  be 
agreeable  in  her  home,  and  she  doesn't  need  to 
speak  the  dead  languages  to  do  that!"  Then  he 
applied  to  educated  women  Dr.  Johnson's  remark 
about  the  dog  standing  on  his  hind  legs.  Sylvia 
yielded  instantly.  She  never  spoke  of  Vassar 
again;  instead,  she  crept  into  Dr.  Lavendar's 
study  one  evening,  and  asked  him  to  give  her 
Greek  lessons. 

"Bless  your  heart!"  the  old  minister  said, 
rather  startled;  "I  don't  look  in  my  Greek  Testa 
ment  a  dozen  times  a  year — to  my  shame  I  say 
it."  But  when,  timidly,  she  urged  a  little,  he 
said:  "Well,  come  along;  every  Saturday,  after 
Collect  Class.  It  will  sharpen  up  my  wits." 

When  Lewis  Halsey  realized  that  she  was  going 
to  the  Rectory  rather  frequently  he  was  annoyed. 
(He  was  a  Presbyterian, — at  least  he  owned  a 
pew  in  the  Presbyterian  church  in  Upper  Chester, 
and  saw  to  it  that  his  girls  sat  in  it.) 

"See  here,  Sylly,"  he  said;  "is  Dr.  Lavendar 
proselytizing?" 

"Oh  no,  sir;  he  is  just  giving  me  Bible  lessons," 
Sylvia  said,  breathlessly.  She  did  not  add  that 
the  New  Testament  was  her  Greek  Reader.  Her 
father  frowned. 

5  59 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"Bible  lessons?  Are  you  sure  there's  no  prayer- 
book  nonsense?" 

And  Sylvia,  with  scarlet  cheeks  and  down- 
dropped  eyes,  said,  "Oh  no,  sir!" 

Except  in  the  matter  of  lovers  and  education, 
his  daughters  did  not  know  that  they  were  not 
very  well  off.  He  told  them  that  they  were, 
often  enough!  And  sometimes  he  reminded  them 
of  their  short-lived  rebellions:  "I  brought  you 
down  on  your  haunches,  my  dears,"  he  would 
say;  and  they,  reddening  painfully,  would  give 
a  deprecating  little  laugh:  "Oh,  now,  father!" 
Occasionally  he  complimented  them  on  their 
characters  or  accomplishments,  for  both  of  which 
he  gave  himself  the  credit:  "I  brought  you  two 
up  to  tell  the  truth.  Women  are  naturally  de 
ceitful,  but  you  two  girls  are  as  straight  as  George 
Washington!"  As  for  accomplishments:  "You 
make  as  good  a  sangaree  and  as  good  a  julep  as 
I  could  myself,  Sadie,"  he  told  his  elder  daughter, 
who  blushed  with  pleasure.  Sylvia,  he  said,  had 
brains  enough  to  read  aloud  very  well;  so  he 
let  her  exercise  them  by  reading  him  to  sleep 
night  after  night. 

But  really  and  truly,  Lewis  Halsey  treated  his 
daughters  quite  as  kindly  as  he  did  his  dogs, 
and  a  little  more  personally  than  his  horses,  even 
his  shining  bay  mare,  Betty.  On  this  particular 
morning,  when  the  bombshell  burst  in  the  Halsey 
family,  the  two  ladies  could  have  wished  he  was 
less  kind  to  his  dogs,  for  Rover  and  Watch  had 

60 


THE   HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

tracked  much  snow  into  the  house  on  their  way 
up-stairs  to  wait  outside  their  master's  door ;  when 
they  should  hear  the  stropping  of  the  razor  to  the 
tune  of  "Old  Hundred"  they  would  sniff  at  the 
threshold  with  whimpering  cries,  their  muscles 
taut  with  readiness  to  leap  upon  him  with  wet 
caresses. 

"I  wish  dear  father  wouldn't  have  the  dogs 
come  in  on  snowy  days,"  Miss  Sarah  Halsey  said. 
"Ellen  has  just  wiped  the  front  stairs,  and  they 
will  track  them  all  up.  She  will  be  cross  if  I  tell 
her  to  clean  them  again." 

"Ellen  is  never  cross  about  anything  father 
does,"  Miss  Sylvia  said;  "but  perhaps  one  of  us 
had  better  wipe  the  stairs." 

Her  sister  assented.  It  did  not  occur  to  them 
to  keep  the  dogs  out. 

With  daughters  like  this,  and  servants  and  dogs 
who  adored  him,  of  course  Lewis  Halsey  was 
amiable  in  his  own  house.  Even  those  of  us  who 
are  tigers,  would  be  amiable  under  such  conditions. 
He  was  amiable  outside  of  his  own  house,  for  Old 
Chester  had  no  occasion  to  cross  him.  So  as  it 
happened,  very  few  people  knew  that  he  had  claws. 
He  was  exceedingly  agreeable,  and  full  of  careless 
generosities;  he  had  genial,  though  rather  stately 
manners ;  to  be  sure,  he  drank  more  than  was  good 
for  him,  but  in  those  days  many  men  did  that. 
He  was  a  big  man,  with  a  red  face  which  would 
have  been  gross  but  for  large,  dark  eyes  and  an 
eagle  nose  that  was  full  of  power.  He  told  a  good 

61 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

story  well,  and  an  improper  story  better;  he  was 
just,  he  was  honest,  and  he  never  lied. 

With  all  these  good  qualities,  of  course  Old 
Chester  liked  him;  and  his  girls  lapped  his  hand, 
so  to  speak. 

On  this  bright  winter  morning  the  two  red  set 
ters,  their  soft  paws  making  tracks  all  over  the 
clean  stairs,  trotted  up  to  wait  outside  his  bed 
room  door,  and  his  daughters  walked  about  the 
dining-room,  looking  wistfully  at  the  breakfast- 
table.  The  arrival  of  the  letters  gave  them  some 
thing  to  do  and  helped  them  to  forget  the  pangs 
of  hunger.  Sarah  opened  the  bag  and  sorted  out 
the  rather  limited  mail.  The  Spirit  of  Missions 
came  first. 

"That's  for  you,  Sylly.  Here's  a  letter  for 
father — oh,  Sylvia,  it's  from  Nick!  And  here's 
one  for  me.  I  wonder  who  it's  from?"  The  one 
vital  moment  in  Miss  Sarah's  life  had  followed  a 
letter,  so  to  her  the  mail-bag  stood  for  Possibility. 
She  turned  the  unknown  letter  over  and  over, 
studied  the  postmark,  showed  it  to  Sylvia,  specu 
lated  as  to  who  the  writer  could  be,  and  finally 
opened  it.  It  was  from  nobody  in  particular,  but 
it  had  given  her  a  thrill  of  expectation,  and  it 
served  to  pass  the  time. 

"I  hope  Nick  won't  say  anything  disagreeable 
in  his  letter,"  Miss  Sylvia  murmured,  turning  a 
page  of  her  magazine;  "his  last  one,  with  all  that 
music  talk,  did  vex  papa  so.  Sadie,  it  says  that 
women  in  Asia  Minor — " 

62 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

"Oh,  I  hope  he  won't,"  her  older  sister  sighed. 
They  were  gentle  creatures,  these  two  ladies,  who 
wanted  their  breakfast,  but  who  never  dreamed 
of  eating  it,  and  whose  sun  rose  and  set  in  their 
brother  Nicholas.  He  was  Romance  to  them,  he 
was  Adventure,  he  was  Life! — Life,  which  they 
had  never  tasted  for  themselves.  And  he  had 
never  buckled  down  to  dear  father. 

"There's  papa!"  said  Miss  Sylvia,  in  a  flurried 
way.  There  was  a  joyous  bark  in  the  upper  hall, 
and  a  scuttle  of  paws;  then  a  hearty  voice  said, 
"Get  out  of  my  way,  you  rascals!"  And  Lewis 
Halsey,  humming  loudly, 

"  Glorious  things  of  thee  are  spoken!" 

came  down-stairs,  Rover  and  Watch  imperiling 
his  neck  at  every  step. 

As  he  entered  the  dining-room,  each  daughter 
offered  a  dutiful  cheek  for  his  morning  kiss,  and 
made  furtive  efforts  to  avoid  the  moist  exuber 
ance  of  the  dogs. 

"Good  morning,  my  dears!  Good  morning!" 
Lewis  Halsey  said,  pinching  Sylvia's  ear.  "Sadie, 
if  your  coffee  isn't  better  than  it  was  yesterday, 
I  shall  find  another  boarding-place!" 

The  two  ladies,  fluttering  along  beside  him  to 
the  table,  laughed.  They  always  laughed  at 
papa's  jokes. 

"I  do  hope  it's  good  this  morning,  dear  father," 
Miss  Sarah  said,  her  mild,  prominent  eyes  full 

63 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

of  anxiety;  "but  it  has  been  standing  quite  a 
while—" 

"That  fool  in  the  kitchen  ought  not  to  make  it 
until  I'm  ready  for  it,"  he  said,  good-naturedly. 
Neither  of  his  daughters  answered;  it  would  not 
have  occurred  to  them  to  say  that  as  the  fool 
did  not  know  the  moment  of  readiness,  she  could 
not  make  the  coffee  for  that  moment.  Instead, 
Sylvia  brought  a  bottle  from  the  sideboard,  and, 
pouring  the  whisky  into  his  glass,  said,  as  she 
said  every  morning,  "Say  when,  sir!"  And  he 
made  his  daily  witticism:  "Come!  Come!  Not 
so  much!  Do  you  want  me  to  fill  a  drunkard's 
grave?" 

The  dining-room  in  the  Halseys'  pleasant  old 
house  was  especially  pleasant  that  morning;  the 
girls  remembered  it  afterward,  crying  in  a  sub 
dued  way  at  the  mere  recollection  of  the  contrast 
—the  friendly  dogs  sitting  on  either  side  of  their 
master,  the  big  room,  with  its  heavy,  old-fashioned 
furniture,  the  soft-coal  fire  sputtering  cheerfully 
in  the  grate,  the  sunshine  making  the  crimson 
rep  curtains  in  the  two  long  windows  glow  like 
blood,  and  beyond  them  the  glittering  white  win 
ter  landscape;  then  crash! 

It  was  the  bombshell — Nick's  letter.  His  father's 
face  had  hardened  at  the  sight  of  it.  It  always 
hardened  at  any  mention  of  Nicholas — Nicholas, 
whose  birth  had  taken  his  mother's  life,  and  who 
had  been  a  thorn  in  his  father's  flesh  ever  since  he 
was  out  of  petticoats.  Mr.  Halsey  took  the  bomb- 

64 


HIS   NAME   IS   NOT   TO   BE   MENTIONED   HEREAFTER   UNDER   MY   ROOF 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

shell  up  carelessly  enough,  and  slit  the  envelope 
with  his  penknife.  His  daughters  watched  him 
furtively;  then  glanced  at  each  other,  trembling, 
for  the  change  in  his  face  as  he  read  his  son's 
communication  frightened  them.  The  color  fell 
out  of  his  cheeks,  then  returned  in  a  rush  of 
purple.  Little  beads  of  foam  gathered  in  the  cor 
ners  of  his  mouth.  But  he  was  silent.  He  put 
the  letter  down  and  drank  his  coffee. 

"Bring  me  that  bottle,"  he  said.  The  girls 
flew  to  get  it.  There  was  no  joke  about  a  drunk 
ard's  grave  now.  He  poured  out  a  great  drink 
and  swallowed  it  at  a  gulp.  Then,  still  in  silence, 
he  read  his  son's  letter  again.  His  daughters 
stared  at  him,  breathless  with  fright.  At  last  he 
laid  the  carelessly  scrawled  sheet  down,  and 
putting  his  elbow  on  the  table,  leaned  his  chin  in 
his  hand;  only  so  could  he  control  its  tremble  of 
rage. 

"Your  brother,"  he  began,  and  the  two  women 
started  at  the  dreadful  voice-  "your  brother  is 
dead—" 

Miss  Sarah  gave  a  faint  scream,  but  Sylvia 
put  her  hand  on  her  arm.  '  *  He  doesn't  mean  that," 
she  said,  under  her  breath.  He  did  not  mean  it; 
what  he  meant  was  worse  to  the  two  poor  sisters 
than  death. 

"He  is  dead  to  me.  He  is  dead  so  far  as  this 
house  is  concerned.  His  name  is  not  to  be  men 
tioned  hereafter  under  my  roof." 

Then  softly,  his  face  purple,  he  said  a  few  very 
65 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

terrible  and  blasphemous  words.  "You  may  read 
the  letter,  if  you  want  to,"  he  said,  and  flipped  it 
half-way  across  the  table.  "He  has  married  a 
servant-girl.  The  woman  is  a — "  He  ended  the 
sentence  with  an  outrageous  word,  and  rose. 
Watch  sprang  up,  too,  and,  capering  in  front  of 
him,  was  suddenly  and  violently  kicked;  his 
yelp  of  pain  made  Sarah  burst  out  crying.  Then 
the  door  slammed. 

Somehow  or  other,  sobbing  and  shaking,  the 
two  ladies — crimson  to  their  modest  temples  from 
that  last  word — reached  for  the  letter,  and  read 
it,  pressing  close  together  as  if  for  support  under 
the  shock  of  its  contents.  And  indeed  they  were 
a  shock:  Nick  was  married;  the  lady  was  Miss 
Gertrude  Estey;  she  had  been  a  servant  in  the 
hotel  in  which  he  had  lived,  and  she  was  a  Roman 
Catholic.  He  wished  his  family  to  know,  he  said, 
that  he  had  himself  become  a  Catholic. 

That  was  all.  .  .  . 

It  was  enough !  It  was  a  sort  of  last  straw  upon 
the  accumulation  of  angers  which  for  years  had 
been  slowly  building  between  the  father  and  son. 
Nicholas  was  always  doing  impossible  things.  At 
school  he  was  in  constant  hot  water;  as  a  youth, 
in  direct  disobedience  to  his  father's  command, 
he  enlisted,  and  served  in  the  ranks  until  the  war 
was  over;  when  he  was  twenty-one,  instead  of 
following  in  his  Presbyterian  father's  very  suc 
cessful  legal  footsteps,  he  insisted,  passionately, 
on  studying  for  the  Episcopal  ministry.  "Why 

66 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

stop  at  the  Half -Way  House?  Why  not  go  over 
to  Rome,  and  be  done  with  it?"  Lewis  Halsey 
had  sneered  at  him.  But  hardly  had  his  sisters 
grown  used  to  their  pride  in  his  choice  of  a  pro 
fession,  and  his  father  succeeded  in  swallowing 
his  disappointment  about  the  Law  and  his  dis 
pleasure  at  Dr.  Lavendar  for  "  influencing "  the 
lad — as  he  chose  to  believe  the  old  minister  had 
done — than,  with  much  talk  of  beliefs  and  dis 
beliefs,  of  sincerity  and  truth,  Nick  threw  over 
the  profession  of  theology  and  went  on  the  stage. 
"I  should  prefer  a  circus,"  his  father  wrote  him, 
with  angry  contempt;  "it  isn't  quite  as  low  as  a 
theater,  for  in  the  ring  you  can  at  least  associate 
with  horses." 

Mr.  Halsey  always  felt  that  Dr.  Lavendar 
deserted  him  at  this  distressing  time,  for  he  re 
fused,  up  and  down,  to  urge  Nicholas  to  stick 
to  theology.  "I'll  tell  him  what  I  think  of  the  the 
ater,  if  you  want  me  to.  'Course  I  don't  want 
him  to  go  on  the  stage!  But  I  won't  urge  him  to 
enter  the  ministry,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"It  strikes  me  that  you  blow  hot  and  cold,  sir. 
A  year  ago  you  were  all  for  the  cloth!" 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  "the  pro 
fession  of  the  ministry  is  like  matrimony:  if  it 
is  possible  for  you  to  keep  out  of  it,  it's  a  sign 
that  you've  no  business  to  go  into  it!  Come, 
come,  Mr.  Halsey!  Nick  will  find  his  own  line 
one  of  these  days;  this  stage-struck  business  won't 

last." 

67 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

It  did  not.  Perhaps  through  the  young  man's 
lack  of  success,  perhaps  through  dismayed  dis 
gust  at  the  actualities  of  his  art,  the  stage  was 
even  more  temporary  than  the  pulpit.  At  any 
rate,  he  left  the  boards  before  his  father's  opposi 
tion  had  hardened  into  permanent  anger.  Since 
then — he  was  not  quite  thirty-three — he  had 
knocked  about  in  various  businesses,  always  pas 
sionate  over  this  or  that  spiritual  quality,  always 
in  debt,  but  never  in  disgrace.  In  fact,  his  person 
al  life  was  rather  more  upright  than  that  of  most 
men  of  that  somewhat  loose-moraled  time.  Per 
haps  if  he  had  not  been  so  immaculate,  his  father 
would  have  got  along  with  him  better.  Dissi 
pation  Lewis  Halsey  could  have  dismissed  with 
"boys  will  be  boys";  a  fellow-feeling  makes  for 
family  peace,  and  Halsey,  Sr.,  had  been  a  "boy" 
himself. 

So,  ever  since  his  son  had  become  a  man,  their 
relation  had  been  one  of  chronic  irritation.  But 
there  was  no  "irritation"  that  winter  morning 
when  the  bomb  exploded  in  the  dining-room. 
There  was  no  desire  to  say  "boys  will  be  boys." 
To  marry  the — Lewis  Halsey  had  said  the  un 
speakable  word  before  his  two  reddening  and 
paling  daughters.  His  son  was  a  fool;  he  added, 
in  profane  detail,  just  what  kind  of  a  fool — until 
the  two  ladies  had  to  put  their  trembling  hands 
over  their  ears.  Then  he  had  kicked  Watch, 
slammed  the  dining-room  door  after  him,  and  in 
the  hall  the  sisters  heard  him  thundering  at 

68 


THE    HARVEST    OF    FEAR 

Ellen,  who  was  cleaning  the  stairs  for  the  second 
time: 

"Get  out  of  my  way!  What  do  you  mean  by 
leaving  a  bucket  on  the  stairs!  Don't  you  know 
better?  Go  out  to  the  stable,  and  tell  that  idiot, 
George,  to  bring  the  sleigh  to  the  front  door,  in 
stantly!" 

His  daughters,  holding  their  breath,  heard  Ellen 
flying  down  the  hall.  "  She'd  have  given  notice, 
if  I  had  reproved  her  about  leaving  her  bucket  on 
the  stairs,"  Miss  Sarah  whispered. 

The  "idiot"  in  the  stable  brought  the  sleigh 
to  the  door  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye;  but  he 
had  to  stand  in  the  snow,  beating  his  arms  across 
his  chest  in  a  vain  effort  to  keep  warm,  for  nearly 
half  an  hour  before  his  master  appeared.  Then 
Lewis  Halsey  clambered  into  the  sleigh,  tucked 
the  buffalo  robes  about  his  feet,  lashed  Betty 
across  the  flanks,  and  was  off  with  a  jerk  that 
nearly  threw  him  out  of  the  sleigh.  "He's  the 
devil!"  George  said,  admiringly.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  hour  or  two  before  the  sisters  were 
composed  enough  to  go  over  to  the  Rectory  and 
pour  out  their  hearts  to  Dr.  Lavendar;  when 
they  did  they  were  surprisingly  comforted: 

"As  for  her  religion,  if  it  has  made  her  a  good 
woman,  it's  been  a  good  religion  for  her.  And  as 
Nick  loves  her,  she  must  be  a  good  woman. 
Trust  Nick!" 

"But  she  was  a — she's  common,"  Sylvia  said. 
"Common?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar.   "Well,  wasn't 
69 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

it  the  common  people  who  heard  Him  gladly? 
If  she  has  done  that,  she  may  be  uneducated, 
but  she  isn't  vulgar.  Trust  your  brother,  Sylvia!" 
There  was  nobody  to  tell  Lewis  Halsey  to  trust 
his  son,  and  he  would  not  have  done  so  if  he  had 
been  told.  But  the  long,  cold  drive  to  Upper 
Chester  steadied  the  whisky- jangled  nerves,  and 
when  he  reached  his  office — a  little,  old,  brick 
building  with  a  white-pillared  doorway — and  sat 
down  at  his  desk,  he  was  able  to  write  to  Nick 
quite  calmly.  His  letter  was  a  brief  statement  of 
his  opinion  of  the  young  man's  conduct,  coupled 
with  an  insulting  reference  to  his  wife;  it  ended 
with  a  single  piece  of  information: 

I  am  making  a  new  will;  there  is  no  lawyer  this  side,  of 
hell  smart  enough  to  break  it.  You  and  your  servant-girl 
can  starve,  so  far  as  my  money  goes. 

Mr.  Halsey  did  not  practise  in  Old  Chester — 
there  was  nothing  to  practise  upon.  Mr.  Ezra 
Barkley  did  our  conveyancing,  and  drew  our 
wills  and  witnessed  our  signatures.  If  Nick's 
father  had  waited  for  Old  Chester  cases,  the  be 
queathing  of  his  property  would  not  have  been  a 
matter  of  much  importance  to  Nick;  but  as  it 
was,  he  was  one  of  our  few  rich  men.  He  took  his 
time  over  that  will;  it  was  a  week  before  it  was 
strong  enough.  But  the  letter  did  not  take  five 
minutes. 

Nicholas's  reply  was  like  an  echo — for  at  bot 
tom  he  was  his  father's  son!  Mr.  Halsey  read  it 

70 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

at  the  breakfast-table,  watched  again  by  the  anx 
ious  sisters;  this  time  he  did  not  throw  the  letter 
to  them  to  read. 

It  was  short,  but  long  enough  to  hold  out 
rageous  retorts;  in  addition  to  the  retorts,  Nicholas 
vouchsafed  to  say  that  the  lady  "of  unblemished 
reputation"  who  had  honored  him  by  marrying 
him  was  as  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  his  family 
as  he  was  himself.  Furthermore,  so  far  as  her  re 
ligion  (and  his)  went— he  now,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  had  reached  spiritual  peace  and  in 
tellectual  certainty. 

"Spiritual  hog-wash!"  Mr.  Halsey  said;  "and 
intellectual  mendacity.  Well,  it's  nothing  to  me. 
He  can  turn  Mormon,  if  he  wants  to."  He  tore 
the  page  across  twice,  and  threw  the  scraps  under 
the  table. 

His  daughters  had  seen  the  letter  in  the  mail- 
bag  before  he  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  had 
speculated  in  scared  undertones  as  to  its  contents; 
but  after  that  outburst  they  dared  not  ask  what 
Nick  had  said.  Lewis  Halsey  had  quite  regained 
his  composure  since  that  dreadful  day  a  week 
before  when  the  news  of  the  marriage  had  come. 
This  morning  he  was  his  usual  carelessly  amiable 
self;  he  had  stropped  his  razor,  with  loud  cheer 
fulness,  to: 

"Let  every  kindred,  every  tribe, 
On  this  terrestrial  ball—" 

Still  humming,  he  took  his  seat  at  the  table, 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

but  did  not  open  his  mail  until  he  had  fed  the 
dogs,  said  the  coffee  was  good,  and  tossed  each 
lady  a  five-dollar  bill.  The  Misses  Halsey  had 
unlimited  credit  in  Old  Chester,  but  no  bank- 
accounts.  If  either  sister  wanted  to  buy  a  postage- 
stamp,  their  father's  generosity  had  to  be  appealed 
to.  It  was  never  denied,  and  very  often,  unasked, 
he  gave  one  or  the  other  of  them  a  bill,  just  as  he 
would  throw  a  bone  to  Watch  or  Rover. 

When  he  threw  the  two  greenbacks  across  the 
table  that  rainy  January  morning,  each  lady  made 
a  dive  for  the  fluttering  benefaction,  and  both 
said,  ardently,  "Oh,  thank  you,  father!"  When 
he  hummed  hymn  tunes  he  was  always  in  a  good 
humor,  and  on  this  particular  morning  his  dark 
eye  had  that  amused  look  that  they,  like  Rover 
and  Watch,  knew  meant  bones  or  bills,  so  it  had 
seemed  to  them  (making  little  signs  to  each  other 
that  his  temper  was  all  right)  a  propitious  moment 
to  refer  to  Nicholas.  But  before  they  could  do 
so  he  opened  his  mail,  and  made  that  comment  on 
Nick's  letter;  so  they  hesitated.  An  hour  later, 
however,  when  he  was  shrugging  into  his  great 
coat  in  the  hall,  he  was  entirely  good-humored 
again.  He  told  Sylvia,  who  was  scarlet  with  ex 
citement,  that  she  ought  to  get  a  bonnet  to  match 
her  cheeks.  Then  he  pinched  her  ear,  and  took 
up  his  umbrella  and  green  bag. 

So  Sylvia  began:  "Did  Nick—  Is  he—  I 
mean,  are  you — " 

The  good  humor  slipped  off  like  a  cloak;  Lewis 
72 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

Halsey's  face  was  suddenly  leaden ;  he  opened  the 
front  door  as  though  he  had  not  heard  what  was 
said,  then  turned  back  and  stood  on  the  threshold, 
letting  the  icy  wind  blow  in  upon  the  two  ladies. 

"Listen,  please;  your  brother  has  made  his 
bed,  and  I've  made  my  will;  he  can  lie  in  his  work, 
and  I'll  die  in  mine.  Not  another  question  about 
him!  And  let  me  tell  you  this,  you  two:  you 
can't  give  him  any  of  my  money  when  I'm  dead. 
If  you  try  to,  you'll  cancel  your  own  share  of 
the  estate.  And  you  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him  while  you  condescend  to  live  in  my  house. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  Sylvia  faltered;  "we— understand." 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  He  went  down  the  steps, 
but  paused  before  he  got  into  his  buggy,  to  stroke 
Betty's  shining  flank.  "Get  me  some  sugar, 
girls!"  he  called  to  the  shivering  ladies  who  were 
hugging  their  elbows  on  the  door-step ;  and  when 
Betty's  soft  nose  was  slobbering  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  he  told  George  that,  confound  him!  he 
wasn't  looking  after  her  hocks  as  he  should. 
"What  do  I  pay  you  for,  you  loafer?"  he  inquired, 
good-naturedly — and  flung  the  man  a  cigar. 
George  grinned,  and  watched  the  swiftly  retreat 
ing  vehicle  with  worshipful  eyes. 

The  two  ladies,  each  conscious  of  the  greenback 
in  her  pocket,  would  no  doubt  have  looked  wor 
shipful,  too,  but  for  the  remembrance  of  that  torn 
sheet  of  paper  under  the  dining-room  table.  It 
was  Sylvia  who  picked  up  the  scraps  and  began 

73 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

to  put  them  together.  Miss  Sadie  walked  about, 
twisting  her  hands  nervously.  "Oh,  Sylly,  ought 
we  to?  If  father  didn't  want  us  to  read  it — it 
seems  deceitful." 

"He  didn't  say  he  didn't  want  us  to  read  it, 
and  we  didn't  say  we  wouldn't,"  the  younger 
sister  parried,  spreading  the  scraps  out  on  the 
table.  She  paled  as,  piecemeal,  she  read  her 
brother's  words;  the  older  sister  refused  to  look 
at  them,  but  she  listened. 

"Oh,  Nicholas  ought  not  to  say  such  things  to 
father!"  she  said. 

"But  think  what  father  must  have  said  to 
him!"  Sylvia  said,  panting  with  anger.  "I  am 
going  to  write  to  Nick,"  she  declared,  as  she 
gathered  up  the  bits  of  paper  and  threw  them 
into  the  fire.  She  looked  like  her  father  for  a 
moment,  her  black  eyes  brilliant  with  unshed 
tears,  and  her  cheeks  scarlet.  "I  am  Agoing  to 
write  to  Nick,  now,  this  very  minute!" 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  faltered  the  older  sister;  "you 
told  father  we  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with 
dear  Nick." 

"No,  I  didn't;  I  told  him  we  ' understood  ; 
and  so  we  do!" 

"But  he  meant  to  write  to  him,  or- 

"I  can't  help  what  he  meant,"   Sylvia  said, 

coldly.    "I  know  what  I  said.    I  do  'understand.' 

I  understand  too  well!"    And  she  whirled  away 

to  her  own  room  to  write  the  letter.    It  was  very 

brief: 

74 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

DEAR  NICK, — We  are  so  grieved.  We  hope  you  will  be 
happy.  Dear  father  is  so  displeased.  We  are  so  unhappy. 

SYLVIA. 

Then  a  postscript: 

If  she  only  makes  you  happy,  nothing  else  matters. 

She  kept  her  handkerchief  in  her  left  hand  all 
the  time  that  she  was  writing,  and  when  the  let 
ter  was  finished  the  handkerchief  was  a  tight, 
damp  ball. 

"Read  it,  sister,"  she  said.  Miss  Sarah  read 
it,  her  weak  chin  quivering. 

"You  are  very  brave,  Sylvia.  I  couldn't  do 
it — though  I  love  dear  Nick  just  as  much  as  you 
do!  But,  oh,  Sylly,  it  does  seem  deceitful." 

"If  it  is,  it  is  father's  fault  for  making  us  do  it 
this  way,"  the  younger  sister  said,  stubbornly. 
Yet,  for  all  her  stubbornness,  the  habit  of  obedi 
ence  made  her  very  wretched.  And  that  afternoon, 
on  a  sudden  impulse,  she  put  on  her  things  and 
went  out  into  the  rainy  mist.  "I'm  going  to  see 
Dr.  Lavendar,"  she  said,  when  Miss  Sadie  ex 
postulated.  "I  know  he'll  say  I'm  doing  right." 

The  old  man  was  not  at  home,  and  she  had  a 
melancholy  hour,  waiting  in  the  study.  It  had 
begun  to  rain  heavily,  and  the  room  was  growing 
dark;  the  fire  had  crawled  back  into  a  corner  of 
the  grate,  and  now  and  then  blinked  a  red  eye 
at  her.  Mary  looked  in  once,  doubtfully,  as 
though  debating  whether  it  was  safe  to  leave  her 
with  the  silver  candlesticks  or  even  the  books, 
6  75 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

and  once  Danny  came  and  sniffed  her  knees,  but 
upon  reflection  he  accepted  her,  and,  curling  up  in 
Dr.  Lavendar's  chair,  went  to  sleep. 

When  the  old  minister  came  in,  rather  chilled, 
Mary  was  very  stern  with  him,  bustling  around, 
and  talking  about  hot  whisky. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar;  "tea  is  the 
thing  for  old  maids  like  you  and  me,  Mary; 
only  Miss  Sylvia  and  Danny  like  whisky  at  this 
hour  of  the  day.  Sylvia!  Stop !"  he  called  to  her, 
for  she  was  slipping  out  of  the  room;  "what  are 
you  hurrying  off  for?  Mary,  get  my  slippers. 
Daniel,  if  you  don't  give  me  my  chair — !"  Danny 
yawned  and  scrambled  reluctantly  to  the  floor. 
"Well,  Sylvia,  my  dear,  what's  the  matter? 
Something  wrong?" 

She  nodded ;  her  lip  was  too  unsteady  for  speech. 
Dr.  Lavendar  sat  down,  laid  his  hand  on  hers, 
and  waited. 

"Is  it  ever  right  to  be  disobedient?"  Sylvia 
said  at  last,  swallowing  hard  and  wiping  her  eyes. 

"After  you  cease  to  be  an  infant  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law — and  I  rather  think  you  have,"  said 
Dr.  Lavendar,  smiling,  "there  is  only  one  dis 
obedience  for  you  to  consider." 

"To— father?"  she  said,  faintly. 

"To  your  Heavenly  Father,  Sylvia." 

She  pondered  a  moment.  "You  mean  to  what 
I  think  is  right?" 

"Yes,  my  child." 

She  brightened  up  at  that.  "Dr.  Lavendar, 
76 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

father  said  we  must  have  nothing  to  do  with  Nick. 
But  I've  written  to  him," — she  showed  him  the 
letter  clutched  in  her  nervous  hand. 

"I  am  glad  of  it,  Sylvia." 

"But  father  doesn't  know." 

"Tell  him!" 

She  shrank  back  in  her  chair.  "Oh,  I'm  afraid! 
You  don't  know  him,  Dr.  Lavendar.  We  are — 
we  are  just  like  slaves,  Sadie  and  I." 

"The  truth  shall  make  you  free,  Sylvia." 

She  looked  positively  terror-stricken. 

"No!    Oh  no!    I  couldn't." 

"My  dear,"  he  warned  her,  "if  you  give  way 
to  fear,  you'll  be  a  coward;  and  Sylvia" — his 
voice  fell — "a  coward  is  apt  to  be  a  liar.  The 
devil's  first  name  is  Fear,  Sylvia."  She  was 
silent. 

"Come!"  he  urged  her,  cheerfully;  "it's  only 
the  first  step  that  is  hard.  Tell  him  to-night,  and 
mail  the  letter  to-morrow.  He  will  respect  you 
for  it!" 

"Well,  perhaps  I  will,"  she  said,  vaguely — and 
went  over  to  the  post-office  and  dropped  Nick's 
letter  into  the  mail-box. 


ii 

The  next  morning,  in  Dr.  Lavendar's  study, 
little  grizzled  Danny  growled;  and  the  old  min 
ister,  looking  up,  growled  too,  under  his  breath. 
It  was  Saturday  morning,  his  sermon  was  still 

77 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

unwritten — and  here  was  Lewis  Halsey!  .  .  .  "I'll 
hear  the  other  side  now,  I  suppose,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "only  there  isn't  any  other  side." 

"I'm  interrupting  you,  I'm  afraid,"  the  lawyer 
said,  in  his  genial  way;  "you  were  writing  your 
sermon,  sir?" 

"Well,  I'll  turn  the  barrel  upside  down.  Sit 
down,  Mr.  Halsey!" 

His  caller  drew  up  a  chair,  put  his  green  bag 
on  the  table,  and  opened  his  greatcoat  to  take 
some  cigars  from  an  inner  pocket. 

"You'll  find  them  worthy  of  you,  sir,"  he  said. 
And  added,  smiling,  "I  don't  belong  to  your 
flock,  but  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"I'll  be  glad  to,"  the  old  man  said. 

1 1 1  suppose  you  have  heard  of  the  marriage  we've 
had  in  our  family?" 

Dr.  Lavendar  nodded.     "The  girls  told  me." 

"I  suppose  they  told  you  some  of  my  remarks?" 
the  other  man  said,  dryly.  "They  were  not,  per 
haps,  suited  for  clerical  ears,  but  I  confess  they 
expressed  my  sentiments." 

"My  ears  don't  matter  so  much,"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar,  "but  I'm  afraid  your  lips  suffered." 

The  lawyer  laughed:  "My  lips  are  used  to 
somewhat  vigorous  language.  .  .  .  Well!  What 
I  came  to  tell  you,  sir,  is  that  I  have  ventured 
to  name  you  as  one  of  the  executors  of  my  will." 
He  tapped  the  green  bag  on  the  table;  "I  have 
it  here,"  he  said.  "I  trust  you  will  be  willing  to 
serve?" 

78 


THE   HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

Dr.  Lavendar  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  appreci 
ate  the  honor  you  do  me;  but  I  am  getting  on  in 
years;  you  will  probably  outlive  me." 

"I  may,"  Lewis  Halsey  said,  "but "  —  he 
touched  his  left  side— "I  doubt  it." 

"Come,  come!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar.  "What 
does  Willy  King  say?  He'll  patch  you  up!" 

"I  don't  consult  doctors,"  the  lawver  said; 
"I  prefer  to  die  a  natural  death." 

Dr.  Lavendar  laughed,  and  said  he  must  stand 
up  for  William.  "He  put  me  on  my  legs  last  win 
ter.  But  to  go  back  to  the  matter  of  your  will: 
I  really  think  you'd  better  choose  a  younger  and 
more  able  man;  I  know  nothing  about  business. 
At  least,  so  Sam  Wright  tells  me.  Why  don't 
you  take  Ezra  Barkley?" 

Mr.  Halsey  looked  amused;  "Ezra  is  an  amiable 
old  donkey,  but  he  wouldn't  answer  my  purpose. 
It  really  isn't  a  matter  of  business.  I  shall  leave 
my  affairs  straight  as  a  string.  I  want  you,  be 
cause  you  can  keep  an  eye  on  my  girls.  I  shall 
have  So-and-so" — he  named  a  lawyer  in  Upper 
Chester — "for  the  shaft  horse.  I  may  add,  sir, 
that  you  will  profit  by  it  financially;  very  slightly, 
of  course;  but  as  an  executor  you  will  be  entitled 
to  a  per  cent,  on  the  estate." 

Dr.  Lavendar's  eyes  narrowed.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  keeping  an  eye  on  the  girls,  Halsey?" 

"Merely  this:  My  daughters  won't  like  my 
will,  and  they  will  want  to  break  the  spirit  of  it 
— they  can't  break  the  letter!  In  fact,  they  won't 

79 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

try  to;    my  womenkind  have  been  well  brought 
up!    They  would  be  afraid." 

"Fear  is  certainly  a  deterrent,"  Dr.  Lavendar 
admitted,  "but  it  has  its  drawbacks." 

"I  don't  know  of  any." 

"Deceit  comes  out  of  it,  as  naturally  as  a  chicken 
out  of  an  egg.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  every 
lie  that  was  ever  told,  had  its  root  in  some  kind 
of  fear?" 

"My  girls  have  never  deceived  me,"  the  lawyer 
said,  carelessly;  "as  for  fear,  if  I  may  quote 
Scripture" — perhaps  a  retort  trembled  on  Dr. 
Lavendar 's  lips  as  to  Someone  else  who  is  given 
to  such  quotation;  if  so,  he  suppressed  it; — "if 
I  may  quote  Scripture  to  one  of  your  profession, 
I  would  remind  you  that  the  'fear  of  the  Lord  is 
the  beginning  of  wisdom." 

The  old  clergyman  nodded.  "Yes;  but  only 
the  beginning!  If  we  stopped  at  fear  we  should 
never  attain  wisdom.  And  perhaps  you  are 
sufficiently  familiar  with  the  Scriptures  to  recall 
what  perfect  love  does  to  fear?" 

Lewis  Halsey  bowed,  a  little  ironically.  "I 
don't  argue  with  a  man  about  his  own  business! 
I  only  meant  to  explain  why  I  wanted  you  as  an 
executor.  The  girls  will  try  to  evade  the  spirit 
of  my  will,  but  you,  as  their  spiritual  adviser — • 
for  I  am  quite  aware  that  as  soon  as  I  am  out  of 
the  way  they  will  forsake  the  faith  of  their  fathers 
and  go  to  your  church — you  will  keep  them  from 
such  undutiful  conduct." 

80 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

Dr.  Lavendar  was  silent. 

"My  will,"  Lewis  Halsey  went  on,  "disinherits 
— the  man  who  has  disgraced  my  name.  It  is 
very  explicit.  In  fact,"  he  said,  his  face  lighting 
with  wicked  satisfaction,  "as  I  have  told  the 
girls,  there  is  no  lawyer  this  side  of  hell  smart 
enough  to  break  it." 

The  old  minister  looked  at  him  sadly.  ' '  Halsey, ' ' 
he  said,  "do  you  realize  that  only  a  lawyer  al 
ready  in  hell  would  make  such  a  will?  You  hate 
your  own  son!  And  hate  is  hell." 

The  other  man  made  a  gesture  of  smiling  im 
patience.  "Perhaps  we  need  not  discuss  it." 

"It  is  not  open  to  discussion,"  said  Dr.  Laven 
dar,  gravely. 

"Ah,  well,  you  have  a  right  to  your  opinion — 
your  professional  opinion,  I  suppose.  I  won't 
contradict  you.  As  to  the  will,  the  fellow  and 
his  para — " 

"Sir!" 

"His  wife,"  the  lawyer  substituted — much  to 
his  astonishment,  for  Lewis  Halsey  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  changing  his  words  to  please  his  listeners. 
'  *  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  fellow  will  not  get 
a  cent  to  spend  on  his  church  and  his — his  wife. 
I  leave  the  money  to  the  girls  (the  principal  tied 
up,  of  course),  for  their  lifetime;  after  that  it  is 
to  revert — but  I  won't  trouble  you  with  details; 
I  will  merely  say  that  their  brother  won't  get  it! 
That's  what  my  will  is,  sir.  I  wished  you  to  know 
it,  and  to  understand  why  I  have  named  you  as 

81 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

one  of  the  executors.  You  have  a  great  deal  of 
influence  over  my  daughters.  You  see,  though  I 
can  tie  up  the  principal,  I  can't  keep  them  from 
spending  the  interest  in  ways  which  would  "- 
his  voice  was  suddenly  violent,  and  his  hand 
clenched  on  the  arm  of  his  chair — ''which  would 
be  obnoxious  to  me!  It  is  hard  on  a  lawyer,  Dr. 
Lavendar,  to  have  Law  fail  him,  and  be  obliged 
to  resort  to  Religion  to  make  sure  that  his  wishes 
are  carried  out." 

"Halsey,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  abruptly,  "de 
stroy  this  will!  Here — now!  Let  us  burn  it  up. 
It  will  feed  the  flame  upon  the  altar!"  With  an 
impulsive  gesture  he  touched  the  bag  on  the  table. 

4 'None  of  that!"  the  other  man  said,  sharply, 
and  thrust  the  wrinkled  old  hand  aside.  Danny 
growled.  The  lawyer  was  instantly  apologetic: 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  you  startled  me." 

"My  plea  was  not  for  Nick,"  Dr.  Lavendar 
said;  "I  am  not  concerned  about  him." 

"Oh,  you  were  not?"  the  lawyer  said,  rather 
blankly.  "Why,  I  supposed— 

"It  won't  hurt  Nick  to  earn  his  living,"  the 
old  man  explained.  "Good  for  him!  Good  for 
everybody.  My  objection  is  to  the  injury  you 
are  doing  yourself." 

Lewis  Halsey  interrupted  him,  smiling.  "If 
you  please! — I  do  not  mean  to  be  discourteous, 
sir,  but  I  know  my  own  business." 

Dr.  Lavendar  rose  and  took  a  turn  about  the 
room,  which  gave  Danny  the  opportunity  to 

82 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

scramble  up  into  his  chair.    Then  he  came  back 
and  stood  looking  down  at  the  big,  red-faced  man. 

"And  you  think,"  he  said,  "that  I  will  influ 
ence  your  daughters  against  their  brother?" 

"No,  not  exactly  that,"  said  the  lawyer;  "you 
will  merely  make  it  clear  to  them  that  they  would 
be  violating  my  wishes  if  they  spent  the  income 
from  my  money  on — on  those  two  persons." 

"I  see,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"Women,"  the  other  man  explained,  "are  nat 
urally  religious — and  lawless.  If  a  father  can  get 
the  balance  true,  he  can  ride  as  safely  as  John  Gil- 
pin  with  his  bottles.  I  have  looked  after  the  law, 
but  I  want  you  to  supply  the  other  'curling  ear.' 
Your  church  still  holds,  I  believe,  to  the  Ten  Com 
mandments.  The  fifth  is  explicit,  and  I  shall  rely 
upon  you  not  to  let  my  girls  forget  it." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar, 
"that  I  might  make  it  clear  to  them  that  their 
father,  in  this  particular,  does  not  deserve  the 
honor  which  the  Commandment  inculcates?" 

"No,"  Lewis  Halsey  replied,  "it  hasn't.  You 
wouldn't  say  such  an  indecent  thing  to  a  man's 
daughters.  Candidly,  I  have  never  liked  you,  Dr. 
Lavendar,  but  I  have  always  trusted  you." 

"  Oh, "  said  the  old  minister,  thoughtfully.  ' '  Um. 
Well,  Halsey,  I  have  always  rather  liked  you,  but 
I  have  never  trusted  you." 

The  lawyer  got  on  his  feet  with  a  laugh.  "Hon 
ors  are  even,"  he  said,  with  a  low  bow,  and  put 
on  his  hat. 

83 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Dr.  Lavendar  lifted  his  hand.  "  Please  under 
stand  :  I  will  have  no  part  in  your  iniquitous  will. 
You  must  find  another  executor." 

"Good  day,"  Lewis  Halsey  said. 

"Good  day,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 


in 

Sylvia's  letter  to  her  brother,  brief  as  it  was, 
went  straight  to  Nicholas's  angry  heart  and 
brought  a  passionately  hurt  reply: 

You  girls  are  all  right,  I  know.  As  for  him — well,  7  have 
some  decency,  and  as  he  is  my  father  I  won't  say  what  I 
think  of  him. 

Then  he  burst  out  about  his  wife:  she  was  an 
angel  of  goodness  and  she  had  brought  him  into 
a  church  where  he  had  at  last  found  peace. 
She  had  helped  him  in  a  thousand  ways.  As  for 
his  father's  will,  what  did  he  care?  He  could  leave 
his  money  to  the  devil,  if  he  wanted  to — or  he 
could  take  it  with  him,  which  would  amount  to 
the  same  thing!  He  (Nick)  had  Gertrude,  who 
was  "worth  all  the  money  in  the  world"! 

"Sadie,"  Sylvia  said,  "we  ought  to  write  her." 

"Oh,  impossible!"  said  Miss  Sarah,  shrinking; 
"we  told  father  we  wouldn't." 

"No,  we  didn't,"  Sylvia  said,  with  sudden  sly 
ness.  "I  only  said  we  'understood/  Well,  I  shall 
write  to  her,  if  you  won't  I" 

She  did.  It  was  a  cold  letter.  It  could  not  be 
84 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

anything  else,  for  such  a  marriage  could  only  be 
shocking  to  Nick's  family.  Still,  she  did  write 
to  the  new  Mrs.  Halsey,  and  the  letter  gave  great 
pleasure.  Nicholas  answered  it,  because,  he  said, 
"Gert  isn't  much  of  a  letter- writer;  she's  too  busy 
being  a  good  housekeeper."  He  inclosed  a  photo 
graph  of  his  wife,  on  the  back  of  which  he  had 
written : 

Gertrude  Halsey:    The  best  woman  in  the  world! 

N.  H. 

Below  the  exuberant  lines,  another  hand  had 
added,  in  round,  painstaking  letters: 

He's  just  real  foolish,  but  I  just  worship  him,  and  he  is 
the  best  man  in  the  world. 

G.  H. 

The  two  ladies,  holding  the  carte  de  visite  under 
the  lamp,  and  studying  the  round,  simple  face, 
surmounted  by  a  foolish  hat,  blushed  at  such  lack 
of  delicacy.  How  could  she  be  so  gushing !  Ladies 
in  Old  Chester  did  not  say  they  "worshiped" 
their  excellent  husbands. 

"I  suppose  she  means  she  is  sincerely  attached 
to  him;  and  she  is  certainly  pretty,"  Miss  Sylvia 
admitted;  "but—" 

"But  not  a  lady,"  the  other  sister  murmured. 
And  Sylvia,  looking  hard  at  the  honest  face, 
broke  out: 

"I  don't  care  if  she  isn't  a  lady;  she's  good,  and 
makes  him  happy!" 

After  that  the  correspondence  became  a  mat- 
85 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

ter  of  course;  the  only  unusual  thing  about  it 
was  that  Nick's  letters  never  came  in  the  letter- 
bag,  and  his  sisters  kept  their  own  counsel  in  re 
gard  to  their  habit  of  going,  once  a  week,  to  the 
post-office  and  asking  if  there  was  anything  for 
them  marked  "To  be  called  for."  Except  that 
the  Misses  Halsey  had  a  new  look  in  their  gentle 
faces,  a  look  of  interest  and  happiness,  and  even 
sometimes  of  excitement,  life  in  the  Halsey  house 
settled  back  into  the  old  grooves.  Sylvia  read 
aloud  to  her  father  each  night  until  her  eyes  saw 
double  with  fatigue,  and  Sadie  supplemented  the 
cook's  efforts  about  the  coffee  or  what  not.  Mr. 
Halsey  was  late  for  breakfast  for  the  same  cause 
which,  in  the  last  few  years,  had  so  often  kept  his 
daughters  waiting  for  their  morning  meal;  he 
hummed  good  old  Presbyterian  hymn -tunes  as 
he  and  the  dogs  came  down-stairs,  and  he  took 
his  two  fingers  of  whisky,  making  his  old  remark 
about  the  drunkard's  grave — a  joke  which  Will 
iam  King  told  Dr.  Lavendar  would  not  be  a 
joke  if  the  lawyer  kept  the  practice  up  much 
longer.  He  never  spoke  of  his  son;  and  his  son, 
in  those  letters  which  were  "called  for,"  never 
spoke  of  him.  Nick  had  something  better  to 
talk  about — his  wife !  And  by  and  by — this  was 
when  the  Halsey  girls  were  most  openly  excited 
and  happy — he  had  his  two  boys  to  talk  about! 
The  twins  were  born  at  the  end  of  Nick's  first 
year  of  married  happiness.  It  was  Miss  Sylvia 
who  told  Lewis  Halsey  that  he  was  a  grandfather; 

86 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

Sarah,  listening  outside  the  library  door,  heard 
only  a  grunt ;  then,  carelessly : 

4 'That  kind  breed  fast.  I  suppose  there  is  an 
older  child  somewhere  in  the  background?" 

Sylvia,  too  simple  to  see  the  innuendo,  said, 
1  'Oh  no!  Why,  they've  only  been  married  a 
year—  Then  she  understood,  and  blushed 
hotly.  She  was  very  angry  as  she  flew  out  of  the 
room,  stumbling  on  the  threshold  over  her  sister, 
who  had  not  realized  that  the  door  was  to  open  so 
quickly.  She  took  Sarah's  arm  and  pulled  her 
across  the  hall  into  the  parlor.  "Did  you  hear 
what  he  said?  Oh,  Sadie,  how  cruel  in  him! 
Poor,  good  Gertrude!  I'll  never  tell  him  another 
thing  about  them!"  she  declared,  hotly.  It  was 
a  poor  little  retaliation,  but  it  was  the  only  one 
she  could  make.  She  repeated  her  reprisal  when 
the  first  photograph  of  the  twins  arrived:  "He 
sha'n't  see  it!"  she  said,  fiercely — and  felt  that 
the  babies  were  avenged.  She  and  Sarah  brooded 
and  fluttered  over  the  picture,  which  showed  two 
round-eyed  infants,  with  little  bald  heads  bobbing 
against  each  other.  They  didn't  have  Nick's 
looks,  or  even  their  mother's  rather  common 
prettiness;  they  were  just  two  little  cuddling 
things,  but  the  maiden  aunts  were  almost  tearful 
with  maternal  thrills. 

"If  I  could  only  see  them!"  Miss  Sadie  sighed, 
her  big,  mild  eyes  misty  with  happiness. 

"I'd  like  to  see  her,  too,"  Sylvia  said;  "I've 
grown  really  fond  of  her." 

87 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"She  doesn't  know  how  to  spell,"  Miss  Sarah 
said. 

"Well,  I  don't  myself,  very  well,"  Sylvia  de 
clared,  boldly. 

But  of  course  there  was  no  possibility  of  seeing 
Nick's  wife,  or  the  babies,  either.  Even  if  their 
absence  from  home  could  have  been  explained, 
the  Misses  Halsey  had  no  money  for  a  journey. 
The  occasional  generosities  of  the  breakfast-table 
ought,  perhaps,  to  have  been  saved  up  to  meet 
some  such  emergency,  but  they  were  almost  al 
ways  sent  stealthily  to  Gertrude  to  buy  this  or 
that  "for  the  precious  babies."  In  point  of  fact, 
Mrs.  Nick  spent  the  money  for  the  stern  necessi 
ties  of  rent  and  food  quite  as  often  as  for  the  twins. 
For  neither  matrimony  nor  religion  had  changed 
Nick's  nature:  his  church  was  a  great  comfort, 
and  his  wife  a  greater  comfort,  but  he  was  still  a 
rolling  stone.  He  rolled  from  one  business  to  an 
other,  and  the  last  one  was  always  going  to  be  the 
best  yet.  But  the  intervals  between  the  businesses 
grew  longer.  Nick  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip,  and 
loved  his  common  Gertrude  and  his  pudgy  babies, 
and  was  tremendously  happy,  he  told  his  sisters. 
He  did  not  tell  them  that  the  strain  and  tug  of 
trying  to  make  a  living  was  gradually  under 
mining  a  system  at  best  not  robust,  and  since  his 
marriage  really  delicate.  It  was  Gertrude's  let 
ters,  written  in  her  round,  painstaking  hand, 
that  made  the  two  sisters  anxious.  By  and  by 
came  one  that  terrified  them: 

88 


THE    HARVEST    OF    FEAR 

He's  that  sick,  I'm  just  scared  about  him.  If  I  could 
take  him  down  south  maybe  he'd  get  well;  but  we  haven't 
got  the  money. 

Sylvia's  vow  broke  under  that:  "We  must  tell 
father!  He  can't  refuse  to  help  Nick  now." 

Miss  Sarah  sighed.    "You  don't  know  father." 

"He'll  be  a  murderer,  if  he  won't  help  them!" 
cried  Sylvia;  and  that  very  evening,  at  supper, 
she  said,  with  breathless  boldness:  "Nick  is  very 
ill,  sir.  And — and  they  are  so  poor.  Can't  I — 
I  mean  won't  you —  I  mean — they  do  need 
.money  so  dreadfully,  father." 

Mr.  Halsey  put  his  plate  down  on  the  floor  for 
Rover  and  Watch  to  lick,  then  looked  at  Sylvia 
with  amused  eyes.  "There  are  many  persons  who 
need  money  in  the  world;  but  I  don't  feel  called 
upon  to  supply  it."  Then  he  burst  out,  in  a  sort 
of  scream,  "Keep  your  mouths  shut  on  that  sub 
ject!"  With  an  oath  he  pushed  his  chair  back, 
so  violently  that  it  upset  with  a  crash,  and  the 
door  slammed  behind  him. 

"Oh,"  said  Sylvia;  "oh!  oh!"  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

"Sylly,"  her  sister  said,  "there's  my  pearl 
breastpin;  we  can  send  it  to  Gertrude,  and  she 
can  sell  it." 

Sylvia  clutched  at  the  idea.  "So  we  can!  And 
my  topaz  ring,  too!" 

The  search  for  anything  valuable  among  their 
modest  possessions  was  a  great  relief  to  them; 
but  the  things  they  sent  did  not  help  Gertrude 

89 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

much — poor  little  old-fashioned  bits  of  jewelry: 
A  shell  cameo  pin,  some  hair  bracelets  with  gold 
clasps;  "the  clasps  are  worth  something,"  Sarah 
said;  and  two  or  three  rings.  But  it  was  a  com 
fort  to  the  sisters  to  give  all  they  had.  This  was 
just  at  the  beginning  of  Nick's  decline.  As  it 
went  on,  more  and  more  rapidly,  the  frightened 
wife  threw  her  husband's  dignity,  as  well  as  her 
own,  to  the  winds,  and  wrote  to  her  father-in-law 
for  help : 

He'll  die  unless  something  is  done.  He  don't  know  I'm 
writing,  but  won't  you  please — please — please  forgive  him, 
and  send  him  some  money?  I  promise  I  won't  spend  a  cent 
of  it  on  me  or  the  children. 

There  were  two  splashes  on  the  page  that  might 
have  moved  Nick's  father,  but  they  did  not. 
Lewis  Halsey,  two  years  redder,  two  years  more 
sodden,  two  years  angrier,  returned  the  letter  to 
her  without  comment. 

The  way  Gertrude  took  his  brutality  showed 
the  quality  of  the  woman  Nick  had  married. 
Her  dignity  and  anger  were  very  noble.  She  wrote 
to  her  sisters-in-law  and  told  them  what  their 
father  had  said;  she  added,  very  simply: 

He  is  a  bad  man,  but  he  is  hurting  himself  more  than  us. 
I  am  sorry  for  him,  because  he  will  be  sorry  when  it  is  too 
late.  When  my  Nick  is  dead  he  will  be  sorry. 

Was  he  sorry?    Who  can  say! 
There  came  a  day  when  the  two  sisters,  weeping, 
went  into  the  library.  .  .  .  Lewis  Halsey  had  been 

90 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

working  at  his  desk,  but  had  risen,  and  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  was 
walking  back  and  forth,  thinking  out  a  brief,  and 
humming,  cheerfully: 

"From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 
Let  the  Creator's  praise  arise — " 

It  was  Sarah  who  handed  him  the  despatch: 

Nicholas  is  dead. — GERTRUDE. 

He  read  it.  Read  it  again,  and  handed  it  back. 
Then,  without  speaking,  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  took  up  his  pen. 

" Father!"  Sarah  said;  "oh,  father,  what— 
what  shall  we  do?" 

"I  can  tell  you  one  thing  to  do,"  he  said, 
quietly;  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

They  fled — that  pointing  ringer  was  violently 
compelling.  They  hurried  out  of  the  room,  jos 
tling  against  each  other  like  two  frightened  pig 
eons,  not  daring  to  look  behind  them  to  see  what 
he  did.  If  they  had  looked  they  would  have  seen 
nothing  but  the  steady  movement  of  his  pen 
across  his  paper,  which  certainly  would  not  have 
revealed  anything  to  them.  At  the  end  of  an 
hour  he  stopped  writing  and  glanced  over  his 
brief;  then,  with  a  shrug,  tore  it  up  and  threw  it 
in  the  waste-basket.  Perhaps  that  might  have 
revealed  something. 

That   night,    when   the  house  had   sunk  into 
silence,  Sylvia  Halsey  came  into  her  sister's  room ; 
7  9i 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

she  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  Sarah's  bed,  shading 
her  candle  with  one  hand.  "I'm  going,"  she  said, 
briefly. 

"Oh,  Sylvia  dear!  You  can't!  How  can  you?" 
poor  Miss  Sarah  said.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  her 
arms  around  her  knees  and  her  face  twitching 
nervously  in  the  faint  light  that  shone  through 
Sylvia's  fingers. 

"I  shall  say  I  am  going  to  Mercer  to  visit — 
oh,  anybody;  I  can't  think  who,  yet.  The  Rogers, 
I  guess.  But  I  will  go  right  through  to  Phila 
delphia.  I'll  only  stay  for — for  the  funeral." 

"If  he  were  to  find  out!" 

"He  can't  do  anything  worse  to  me  than  he 
has  to  Nick.  And  what  do  I  care  for  his  money, 
compared  to  Nick!  Oh — my  darling  Nick!"  She 
broke  down,  and  for  a  moment  they  both  cried. 
"I've  got  to  go,  sister,"  Sylvia  said,  wiping  her 
eyes;  "I  couldn't  stay  away." 

"But  how  about  the  money?  It  will  cost  fifty 
dollars  at  least,  and  if  you  ask  him  for  so  much 
as  that  he'll  want  to  know  why  you  want  it. 
There's  no  use  just  saying  *  Mercer.'  He  knows 
you  could  go  to  Mercer  and  back,  and  do  some 
shopping,  and  have  fifty  cents  left  over  for  the 
Rogers'  chambermaid — for  five  dollars.  But  fifty 
dollars!  Oh,  Sylvia,  it's  impossible!" 

"I  shall  get  it,"  Sylvia  said. 

"How?"  the  other  whispered,  and  leaned  for 
ward  to  hear  the  answer. 

"I  shall  say  I  want  to  buy  a  new  dress." 
92 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

"But  you  don't!" 

"Oh,"  said  Sylvia,  with  somber  passion,  "I 
do — a  black  one.  We  have  to  have  mourning; 
we  only  have  the  old  cr£pe  veils  we  had  when 
Aunt  Nancy  died.  Oh,  I  know  he'll  give  me  the 
money — and  I  won't  buy  the  dress.  Sadie!  I 
would  go  to  Nick's  funeral  if  I  had  to  walk." 

Miss  Sarah  fell  back  on  her  pillows  and  stared 
at  her.  "Sister!"  she  gasped;  "but  to  say  you  are 
going  to  Mercer,  when  you  mean  to  go  to  Phila 
delphia — why,  Sylvia!" 

"I  am  going  to  Mercer.  There  isn't  any  false 
hood  about  that.  I  have  to  go  to  Mercer  to  get 
to  Philadelphia." 

Miss  Sarah  was  speechless. 

"You  see,  I  don't  say  anything  that  isn't  true. 
I  merely  don't  say  all  that  is  true." 

"Of  course  it  is  deceiving  him." 

"I  can't  help  that." 

"Oh,  Sylly,  ask  Dr.  Lavendar  if  it's  right!" 

Sylvia  shook  her  head.  "No;  he  might  say 
something  that  would  change  my  mind;  I'll  ask 
him — after  I've  done  it." 

Then  she  slipped  away  to  her  own  room,  and 
the  house  was  silent  again. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  announced 
her  purpose  of  "going  to  Mercer,"  and,  paling, 
asked  for  fifty  dollars:  "I  need  a  new  dress,  sir." 
Lewis  Halsey  was  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
laughed. 

"And  I  flattered  myself  that  I  had  a  white 
93 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

blackbird— a  truthful  woman!     Well,"  he  baited 
her,  'Til  give  it  to  you  next  week." 

The  color  flew  into  her  face.  "I  want  to  go  to 
Mercer  to-day,  father." 

"It  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  rain,"  he  de 
murred,  maliciously;  "better  wait  a  few  days." 

She  was  silent.  "Well,"  he  conceded,  looking 
at  her  with  cruel  eyes,  "go,  if  you  want  to.  I 
suppose  you'll  take  the  morning  stage?  The 
afternoon  coach  gets  into  Mercer  pretty  late;— 
and  the  Eastern  express  leaves  at  four-thirty! 
Give  my  regards— to  the  Rogers,"  he  said,  sar 
donically.  "As  for  the  fifty  dollars,  I  don't  carry 
fifty  dollars  in  my  trousers  pocket!  I'll  leave  a 
check  for  you  on  my  desk  in  the  library." 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  stumbling  over  the 
dogs,  but  for  once  not  swearing  at  them. 

"He  knows!"  Sarah  said,  clasping  her  trembling 
hands. 

Sylvia  nodded.  "But  he's  going  to  give  me  the 
money!"  They  watched  him,  a  big,  black  figure, 
go  down  the  front  door-steps,  stand  desolately  in 
the  sunshine,  while  George  raised  the  hood  of  the 
buggy. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  see  people,"  Sarah  whis 
pered.  When  he  drove  off  up  the  road  they  stole 
over  to  the  library.  The  check  lay  on  his  writing- 
table. 

"Oh,"  Sylvia  said,  with  passionate  relief,  "it's 
for  a  hundred  dollars — you  can  go,  too!" 

Sarah  shook  her  head:  "Give  Gertrude  the 
94 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

other  fifty  to  buy  something  for  the  little  boys," 
she  pleaded. 


IV 

Of  course  poor  Sylvia's  childish  lie  could  not 
have  deceived  any  one. 

"She's  going  to  the  funeral,"  Lewis  Halsey 
said  to  himself  when  he  was  writing  the  check. 
He  smiled  faintly:  "The  Rogers!"  Sylvia  was 
such  a  fool!  But  really  he  did  not  care  much, 
one  way  or  the  other.  "All  women  lie,"  he  told 
himself,  dully.  Nicholas,  whatever  else  he  had 
done,  had  not  lied.  Well,  Nicholas  was  dead. 
His  face  flushed  darkly,  as  if  some  new  anger  sent 
the  blood  to  his  head.  Death  was  Nicholas's 
last  affront.  To  die,  at  thirty-five,  with  nothing 
achieved!  Well,  it  was  like  all  the  rest  of  his 
career.  Failure — failure!  And  the  opportunities 
he  had  had—  Backed  by  Lewis  Halsey's  ability 
and  success,  Lewis  Halsey's  son  could  have  gone 
far.  Instead — !  the  lawyer  brought  his  fist  down  on 
the  table  with  a  violent  word — what  had  he  done? 
Disgraced  himself:  that  wife!  those  children! 
Well,  if  he  preferred  to  wallow,  it  was  nothing 
to  Lewis  Halsey.  And  his  death  was  nothing, 
either.  But  he  wasn't  a  liar;  he  would  say  that 
for  him;  Nick  wasn't  a  liar. 

"But  she's  'going  to  the  Rogers'!"  he  said  to 
himself,  with  a  sudden  laugh. 

Then  the  flare  of  anger  died,  and  dullness  fell 
95 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

upon  him.  He  rose,  heavily,  and  went  out  to 
stumble  into  his  buggy;  this  time  he  had  no  word 
for  Betty,  and  no  cigar  for  George;  his  eyes  were 
stupid  and  his  face  sodden.  "He's  heard  the 
news,"  George  told  himself. 

It  was  a  beautiful  June  morning  of  rain-washed 
air  and  warm,  green  pastures.  The  sumacs  and 
elderberry-bushes,  and  buttonwoods  and  locusts, 
made  pleasant  shadows  on  the  road,  and,  after 
they  were  once  out  of  Old  Chester,  Betty  was  al 
lowed  to  take  her  time.  Perhaps  that  strange, 
dark  anger  at  this  last  injury  his  son  had  done 
him  absorbed  her  master,  for  he  let  her  plod  along 
at  her  own  gait;  once  she  stood  still  to  bite  at  a 
fly  on  her  shining  side,  and  once,  delicately,  like 
a  lady  holding  aside  her  skirt,  she  drew  over  to 
the  edge  of  the  road  to  let  a  wagon  pass.  Some 
times  she  stopped  to  crop  the  blossoming  grass 
growing  close  to  the  wheel-ruts.  Unbidden,  she 
paused  at  the  watering-trough — a  hollowed  log, 
green  with  moss  and  dripping  ferns — and  took  a 
long,  cool  drink.  In  Betty's  dim  brain  there  may 
have  been  some  pleased  astonishment  that  she 
did  not  feel  the  slap  of  an  impatient  rein.  She 
stood  there  quite  a  long  time,  stamping  in  the 
mud  and  pebbles  in  front  of  the  trough,  and 
switching  her  tail  so  sharply  that  the  reins  caught 
under  it  and  were  pulled  over  the  dashboard; 
they  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  whiffletree, 
then  dropped  and  dangled  about  her  heels.  Per 
haps  that  reminded  her  of  her  duty,  or  else  the 

96 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

flies  were  too  troublesome,  for  she  started  briskly, 
and  trotted  for  a  while.     But  on  the  sunny  pull 
up-hill   she  lounged   again   and   took   her   time. 
An  hour  later,  with  the  tangled  reins  dragging 
on  the  ground,  she  drew  up  in  front  of  the  small 
brick  building  with  the  Doric  pillars  from  which 
the  white  paint  was  flecking  off,  and  where  Lewis 
Halsey's  name  on  the  brass  door-plate  was  almost 
obliterated  by  years  of  polishing.    She  stood  there, 
rubbing  her  soft  nose  against  the  iron  horse's 
head  on  the  hitching-post,  stamping,  and  switching 
at  the  flies,  until,  by  and  by,  one  of  the  clerks 
chanced  to  look  out  of  the  office  window,  and 
wondered  at  Mr.  Halsey's  leaving  her  in  the  heat 
to  toss  her  head  until  the  bridle  lathered  her  sleek 
neck.    Then,  suddenly,  he  noticed  the  reins,  and 
even  as  he  gaped  at  them,  wondering,  he  saw 
the  dark,  huddling  shape  that  had  slipped  side- 
wise  on  the  seat  of  the  buggy. 

"Good  Lord!"  Mr.  Robin  said,  and  ran  bare 
headed  out  into  the  blazing  sunshine.  "Mr.  Hal- 
sey!"  he  called;  "Mr.  Halsey?"  But  even  as  he 
called  he  saw  the  still  face  and  the  fixed,  open 

eyes Afterward  the  doctor  said  he  might  have 

been  dead  an  hour;  certainly  Betty  had  taken 
her  time  in  that  pleasant  walk  along  the  shadowy, 
green  road. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  clerk's  discovery,  while 
the  doctor  was  still  in  the  office,  the  morning 
stage  from  Old  Chester,  pulling  through  Upper 
Chester,  passed  the  office  door.  A  black-veiled 

97 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

figure  was  shrinking  into  the  corner  seat,  her  hands 
clasped  hard  together,  her  breath  coming  quickly. 
She  kept  her  head  turned  away  as  they  passed 
the  little  brick  building,  so  she  did  not  see  Betty 
standing  at  the  hitching-post,  nor  did  she  notice 
that  the  front  door,  under  its  leaded  fanlight,  was 
open,  and  that  a  group  of  solemn  people  were 
standing,  talking,  about  the  door-steps.  Not  until 
the  stage  was  well  out  of  Upper  Chester  did  Sylvia 
breathe  freely.  She  had  realized  that  her  father 
had  pierced  the  thin  disguise  of  her  deceit  and 
knew  perfectly  well  that  she  meant  to  disobey 
him.  He  was  capable,  she  thought,  of  stopping 
the  stage  on  the  public  street  and  dragging  her 
back  to  obedience!  "He  would  love  to  do  it,"  she 
said  to  herself,  panting  a  little  behind  her  long 
cr£pe  veil.  She  was  incapable,  in  her  simplicity, 
of  realizing  that  he  might  have  been  too  indif 
ferent  to  her  and  to  her  conduct  to  contend  with 
her  courage.  So  she  passed  him  by,  hiding  in  the 
corner  of  the  stage. 

When  she  reached  Mercer  she  stopped  a  minute 
at  the  Rogers'.  "I  said  I  was  going  to  see  them, 
so  I  must,"  she  told  herself — poor  Sylvia  preferred 
truth!  Then  she  went  to  the  railroad  station, 
hours  ahead  of  time,  and  bought  her  ticket  to 
Philadelphia.  It  was  as  she  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  train  to  back 
in,  that  she  saw  Mr.  Rogers  hurrying  toward  her. 
He  was  plainly  agitated,  and  he  held  something 
in  his  hand. 

98 


THE    HARVEST    OF    FEAR 

"My  dear  Miss  Sylvia!  I  am  so  distressed! 
I — I  must  ask  you  to  prepare  for  bad  news.  This 
despatch  came  to  my  house  just  a  few  minutes 
ago.  It — it  is  bad  news,  my  dear  young  lady." 
He  let  the  telegram  tell  her  the  rest.  It  was  from 
Sarah,  begging  him  to  find  her  sister  at  the  station 
and  tell  her  that  their  father  was  dead  and  that 
she  must  come  home. 

Sylvia  read  the  despatch  with  dazed  eyes. 
The  sudden  confusion  of  ideas  and  purposes 
stunned  her.  Her  father  dead?  No,  it  was  Nick 
who  was  dead.  And  his  funeral — she  must  go 
to  Nick's  funeral!  But  her  father?  She  did  not 
understand.  What  must  she  do?  She  stood 
there,  in  the  big,  noisy,  dirty  Union  Station, 
with  people  jostling  past  her,  too  overcome  even 
to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  streamed  down  her 
face.  Mr.  Rogers  stood  beside  her  with  patient 
sympathy. 

"You  had  better  take  the  afternoon  stage 
back  to  Old  Chester,  dear  Miss  Sylvia,"  he 
said,  kindly. 

"But  Nick?"  she  said;  "my  brother  Nick? 
Oh,  I  must  go  to  Gertrude  and  the  babies.  No, 
Sadie  wants  me!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  Oh,  poor 
father!" 

So,  exclaiming  and  trembling,  she  let  him  lead 
her  away;  and  by  and  by,  in  the  late  afternoon, 
she  found  herself  in  the  stage  again.  She  was 
keyed  to  such  a  pitch  of  courage  in  starting  to 
go  to  her  dead  brother  that  the  reaction  of  turn- 

99 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

ing  back  left  her  almost  indifferent  to  the  terrify 
ing  news  in  Sarah's  despatch.  At  first  she  really 
did  not  take  it  in;  her  mind  was  full  of  Nicholas, 
and  of  Gertrude — who  was  expecting  her!  It 
occurred  to  her  that  she  ought  to  have  telegraphed 
Gertrude  in  Mercer  why  she  wasn't  coming  to 
the  funeral.  She  must  do  it  as  soon  as  she  got 
to  Old  Chester!  Could  she  get  it  into  ten  words, 
she  wondered;  and  counted  the  necessary  words 
over  once  or  twice  on  her  fingers.  She  was  glad 
she  had  money  to  pay  for  the  despatch,  because 
if  she  charged  it  father  would  know  it  and  would 
be  angry  and—  Her  mind  crashed  against  the 
fact!  He  would  never  be  angry  again.  He  was 
dead! 

"Oh!"  she  said,  faintly;  and  one  of  the  pas 
sengers  looked  at  her.  After  that,  as  the  stage 
went  rumbling  along  between  the  peaceful  mea 
dows  and  over  the  domed  and  wooded  hills,  she 
slowly  realized  what  had  happened.  .  .  . 

He  must  have  died  very,  very  suddenly.  Per 
haps  in  his  office;  perhaps,  even,  on  his  way  to 
his  office;  this  made  her  shudder — all  alone!  He 
may  have  fallen  out  of  the  buggy!  Oh,  horrible! 
Poor  father!  Was  it  the  shock  of  the  news  about 
Nick?  It  must  have  been.  She  wished  she  had 
not  spoken  of  him  as  she  did  to  Sarah;  for  he 
may  have  been  sorry  he  had  been  so  severe?  Oh, 
he  must  have  been  sorry!  And  now  they  were 
both  dead;  poor  father,  poor  Nick! 

Behind  her  shrouding  cr£pe  she  burst  out  crying. 
100 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

She  smothered  her  sobs  as  well  as  she  could,  but 
the  passengers  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  one 
of  them  whispered  to  his  neighbor  that  "that 
lady  had  bad  news  just  before  she  left  Mercer." 
The  June  twilight  had  fallen  like  a  perfumed 
veil  when  the  stage  drew  up  at  her  fath^r^  house. 


Then  came  three  empty  days — days  of  lowered 
voices  and  darkened  rooms  and  the  scent  of 
tuberoses  and  lilies.  The  bereavement,  which 
struck  at  the  habits  of  life,  but  was  not  grief, 
the  daughters  could  have  borne;  and  the  silent 
house,  the  horror  of  the  suddenness,  they  could 
have  borne,  too;  the  thing  they  could  not  bear 
was  the  thought  of  Nick — Nick,  buried  without 
their  tears  and  honor!  And  poor  Gertrude,  un- 
comforted  by  a  sister's  sympathy;  and  the  pre 
cious  babies,  all  unconscious  of  their  loss. 

They  talked  constantly  of  Nicholas  and  his 
little  family,  and  once — it  was  the  second  day, 
when  they  were  in  the  dining-room,  having  a 
meager,  womanish  supper  together,  Sylvia  said 
suddenly,  "Will — will  Gertrude  come  and  live 
with  us?" 

Sarah  cried  out  at  such  a  thought  at  such  a  time, 
"Oh,  Sylly,  how  can  you  say  such  things  now, 
when  he  is  just  dead?  You  know  he  would  never 
have  allowed  us  even  to — to  think  of  such  a 
thing." 

101 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"But,"  Sylvia  said,  under  her  breath,  "we  can 
think  what  we  please,  now." 

"Sister!"  Miss  Sarah  protested. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  excitement 
in  each  face  startled  the  other ;  for  it  was  as  Sylvia 
had \ said- -they  could  think  what  they  pleased! 
Theyt  could' even  say  what  they  pleased.  After  a 
while,  wKen,  things  were  settled,  they  could  do 
what  they'  pleased! 

The  recognition  of  freedom  is  a  heady  thing. 
These  two  ladies,  who 

had  wept,  and  wept  the  more, 
To  think  their  grief  would  soon  be  o'er, 

could  not  conceal  from  each  other  their  conscious 
ness  of  liberty.  But  such  consciousness  seemed  a 
shameful  thing  to  them  both,  so  they  hid  it  in 
lowered  tones  and  phrases  of  sorrow. 

Sylvia  said  nothing  more  of  her  ability  to  think 
what  she  pleased;  but  after  a  while  in  a  sub 
dued  voice  she  said:  "I  wish  we  knew  about 
the  will.  Sadie,  don't  you  think  he  must  have 
destroyed  the  old  will  and  made  one  in  Nick's 
favor?" 

"If  he  didn't,"  Sarah  reminded  her,  "we  can 
share  all  we  have  with  Gertrude." 

"Yes,"  Sylvia  said,  "but  the  slight  to  Nick, 
the  slight  to  poor  Gertrude!  But  suppose  he  did 
destroy  it,  and  didn't  make  a  new  one — you  know 
that  is  possible — what  then,  Sadie?" 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  falling  back  on  her 

IO2 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

scanty  knowledge  of  the  law,  "I  suppose  it  would 
all  come  to  us  three  children;  so  Gertrude,  or,  at 
any  rate,  the  boys,  would  get  Nick's  share." 

"What  I  am  hoping  for  is  that  he  made  a  new 
will  and  forgave  dear  Nick." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Miss  Sadie. 

The  funeral  took  place  the  next  day,  in  a  long, 
quiet  rain.  When  the  two  daughters  came  back 
in  the  June  twilight  to  the  empty  house — their 
house,  now, — the  senior  clerk  in  Mr.  Halsey's 
office  was  awaiting  them  to  offer  respectful  sym 
pathy,  and  ask,  in  a  low  voice,  one  or  two  ques 
tions  as  to  the  wishes  of  his  late  employer's  daugh 
ters.  He  said  that  he  had  put  all  Mr.  Halsey's 
papers  together.  "But  I  did  not,"  he  added, 
"come  across  the  will.  Doubtless  it  is  in  the 
desk  in  his  library." 

"You  might  look,"  Miss  Sarah  said.  They  sat 
down  in  the  parlor,  with  their  thick  veils  still 
over  their  faces,  and,  holding  each  other's  hands, 
waited  while  he  looked. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  came  back 
to  say,  in  a  perplexed  way,  that  he  could  not 
find  the  will  in  Mr.  Halsey's  desk.  The  sisters 
squeezed  each  other's  hands. 

"I  think  he  made  a  will,"  Sylvia  said. 

"I  cannot  speak  authoritatively,"  Mr.  Robin 
said,  "but  I  am  confident  he  did." 

"Suppose,"  said  Sylvia,  "he  didn't?" 

"Then  the  estate  would  go  to  your  father's 
heirs,  my  dear  young  lady;  his  three  children. 

103 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

But,  if  I  may  say  so,  Mr.  Halsey  was  much  too 
careful  a  man  to  die  intestate." 

"But  if  he  did?19  Miss  Sylvia  insisted,  "then 
my  brother  Nick  would  have  a  third?" 

"Yes,"    Mr.    Robin    said;    "or,    rather,    your 
brother's  heirs  would." 

When  they  were  alone,  Sylvia's  eyes  were  pas 
sionate  with  relief. 

"Sadie!  He  didn't  make  that  dreadful  will! 
He  just  said  what  he  did  to — to  scare  us.  So 
Gertrude  will  have  Nick's  share." 
"Thank  God!"  said  the  older  sister. 
In  the  parlor  that  rainy  evening  after  the 
funeral,  there  was  a  curiously  solemn  moment. 
Miss  Sarah  had  said  something  about  dear  father, 
and  wept;  then  they  fell  silent;  the  windows 
were  open,  and  the  smell  of  new  box  and  wet 
roses  came  in  from  the  dark  garden;  they  could 
hear  the  rain  falling  on  the  leaves  of  the  great 
catalpas  on  either  side  of  the  porch.  Suddenly, 
in  the  silence,  came  the  pad  of  soft  feet  on  the 
steps;  Rover  and  Watch  whined  a  little,  then 
scratched  at  the  front  door.  Instantly  one  of  the 
sisters  called  out,  sharply:  "No,  Watch!— No 
Rover!  You  can't  come  into  the  house!" 

And  the  other  said,  breathlessly,  "No!  They 
can't." 

It  was  their  declaration  of  independence.  Im 
mediately,  in  their  natural  voices  they  fell  to 
talking  of  all  the  things  they  meant  to  do;  and 
most  of  all,  how  they  were  going,  as  soon  as  they 

104 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

could  settle  things  in  the  house,  to  Philadelphia, 
to  see  Gertrude — poor  Gertrude! — and  the  little 
boys. 

In  the  next  few  days  the  situation  took  definite 
shape:  Lewis  Halsey's  will  could  not  be  found. 
The  office,  the  bank,  his  library,  an  old  desk  in 
his  bedroom,  all  had  been  searched,  and  no  will 
appeared. 

"It  isn't  like  him  not  to  have  made  a  will," 
Mr.  Robin  said,  over  and  over.  "I  can't  under 
stand  it!" 

"It  doesn't  really  make  any  difference,  does  it?" 
Miss  Sylvia  asked. 

"Probably  not,  so  far  as  his  family  is  concerned," 
Mr.  Robin  said. 

It  was  the  strangeness  of  such  negligence, 
rather  than  any  practical  inconvenience  resulting 
from  it,  that  made  people  wonder  and  talk.  Will 
iam  King  commented  on  it  to  Dr.  Lavendar,  who 
locked  very  much  surprised. 

"Halsey  not  leave  a  will?"  he  said;  "why,  he 
must  have!  In  fact,  I  happen  to — "  He  paused. 

" — to  what,  sir?"  William  asked. 

"To  think  he  did,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  mildly. 
Dr.  Lavendar  was  very  mild  sometimes.  "And 
that's  when  he'll  bite  you,  if  you  don't  look  out," 
poor,  snubbed  William  said  to  himself. 

As  for  Dr.  Lavendar,  when  he  went  to  see  the 
two  bereaved  ladies  he  said,  gravely,  that  he  had 
heard  that  no  will  had  as  yet  been  found,  and  he 
was  encouraged  to  hope  that  their  father  had 

105 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

destroyed  the  will  he  made  after  poor  Nick's 
marriage. 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  blankly,  "you  think 
he  made  one,  Dr.  Lavendar?" 

"Yes;  he  made  one,"  said  the  old  minister; 
"but  it  seems  probable  that  he  thought  better  of 
it  and  destroyed  it.  I  am  very  thankful,  for  at 
that  time  he  was  angry;  and  an  angry  will  is 
always  an  unjust  one." 

He  sat  there  in  Lewis  Halsey's  library,  between 
the  two  sisters,  and  let  them  tell  him  what  they 
meant  to  do. 

"We've  written  to  Gertrude  that  she  is  to  live 
with  us,  and  we  told  her  that  the  boys  will  have 
all  poor  darling  Nick's  money,  so  she  need  never 
worry  any  more." 

"Isn't  that  a  little  premature?"  Dr.  Lavendar 
said,  gently;  "of  course,  it  is  possible  that  some 
where— 

But  the  two  sisters  cried  out,  impetuously,  no! 
it  wasn't  possible!  They  had  looked  everywhere. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  "and 
I  lost  my  top,  or  a  fish-hook,  my  mother  used  to 
say,  'Look  in  all  the  possible  places,  and  then 
look  in  all  the  impossible  places." 

The  sisters  laughed.  They  were  beginning  to 
laugh  a  little  now,  for,  in  spite  of  their  grief  about 
Nick,  there  was  this  happiness  of  being  able  to  help 
Nick's  Gertrude.  As  for  looking — ' '  Oh  yes ;  we've 
looked  in  every  place,  possible  and  impossible," 
said  Sylvia,  contentedly;  "there  isn't  any  will." 

1 06 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

It  was  with  no  idea  of  searching  further  for 
what  they  did  not  want  to  find  that  the  next  day 
Sylvia  reminded  her  sister  of  something  which 
must  be  done.  "We  ought  to  look  over  his  clothes, 
before  we  go  to  Philadelphia  for  Gertrude." 

Miss  Sarah,  shrinking  from  the  task  of  all  the 
generations,  faltered  that  she  supposed  they  ought 
to  do  it. 

They  began  the  sorting  out  and  laying  aside 
that  afternoon;  the  house  was  very  still,  and  in 
his  room  their  voices  were  stilled,  too.  They  did 
their  work  with  painstaking  respect  for  his  pos 
sessions:  this  pile  of  things  for  the  gardener;  that 
for  George;  a  trunkful  to  go  to  Dr.  Lavendar  to 
be  given  to  any  poor  man  who  might  need  them 
— "any  worthy  poor  man,"  Miss  Sarah  amended. 

"Yes,"  Sylvia  said,  lifting  out  the  pile  of  hand 
kerchiefs  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  bureau.  .  .  . 
There  it  was! 

Openly,  obviously,  thrown  in  among  some  col 
lars,  hidden  under  a  careless  clutter  of  handker 
chiefs.  A  long,  folded,  blue  paper.  It  was  un 
mistakable.  It  hardly  needed  the  "Last  Will  and 
Testament"  indorsed  on  the  top.  That  it  should 
have  been  in  such  a  place  was  one  of  those  in 
comprehensibly  careless  things  which  are  done  by 
careful  men. 

Sylvia  Halsey,  emptying  the  drawer,  cried  out 
in  a  sharp  voice: 

"Sarah!  Here  it  is— oh,  Sarah!"  She  held  on 
to  the  edge  of  the  drawer,  looking  down  at  that 
8  107 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

folded  document;    she   was  trembling  all  over. 
"What  shall  we  do?    Here  it  is!" 

Miss  Sarah  was  speechless. 

"We  must  look  at  it,"  Sylvia  said,  passionately. 
"I  will  know  I" 

Deliberately,  but  with  shaking  hands,  she  broke 
the  seals  and  began  to  read.  Sarah,  holding  her 
breath,  watched  her.  Sylvia's  face  changed  from 
anxiety  to  violent  anger. 

"Wicked!"  she  called  out,  loudly;  "wicked! 
He  calls  Gertrude — he  calls  Nick's  wife — that 
name!  Oh,  I  won't  have  it!  I  won't  bear  it!" 
She  threw  the  will  on  the  floor  and  set  her  heel  on 
it.  "Wicked!  Wicked!  Read  it;  read  his  wicked 
will,"  she  said. 

Sarah  picked  the  paper  up  and  began  to  read 
it.  In  the  middle  of  it,  in  her  despair  and  shame, 
she  sat  down  on  the  floor,  leaning  her  head  against 
the  bed,  and  groaned.  In  incisive  words,  brutal, 
cruel,  insulting  to  his  son  and  to  the  good  and 
simple  woman  his  son  had  married,  Lewis  Halsey 
had  made  that  will  which  he  believed  "no  lawyer 
this  side  of  hell"  could  break.  The  two  ladies, 
tingling  from  head  to  foot  with  horror  and  pain, 
did  not  realize  the  legal  quality  of  the  instrument 
before  them,  but  they  knew  what  it  meant  in  re 
lation  to  their  brother's  wife. 

"Of  course,"  said  Sylvia,  "we  could  give  her 
a  third  of  the  income, — we  can't  touch  the  prin 
cipal,  you  see;  but  simply  sharing  the  income 
wouldn't  make  up  to  Gertrude  and  the  little  boys, 

108 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

and  our  Nick,  our  dear,  dear  Nick!  for  the  awful 
things  father  says.  Oh,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
raising  her  clenched  hands  and  looking  up,  "I 
hate  you,  father!" 

She  spoke  through  her  shut  teeth,  and  she 
looked  exactly  like  Lewis  Halsey.  Sarah,  crouch 
ing  on  the  floor,  cringed  away  from  her. 

"Oh,  Sylvia,  do  stop!"  she  whispered. 

Sylvia  put  out  her  hand  and  lifted  her  sister  to 
her  feet.  "Now  listen,"  she  said,  curtly.  She 
picked  up  the  will,  and  read  a  paragraph  here  and 
another  there.  Even  to  their  ignorant  ears,  it 
was  conclusive.  He  left  the  entire  income  of  his 
estate  to  his  daughters,  but  he  forbade  them, 
"on  pain  of  his  displeasure,"  to  use  any  part  of 
this  income  for  their  brother,  or  his  heirs  or  assigns. 
Then  followed  a  long  paragraph,  in  involved  and 
technical  terms,  as  to  the  final  disposal  of  the 
property. 

"I  can't  understand  all  that,"  Sylvia  said, 
skimming  it  with  angry  eyes;  "it  seems  to  be 
only  another  insult  to  Nick — a  way  of  keeping 
the  money  from  Gertrude  and  the  little  boys  when 
we  are  dead.  I  won't  read  it !" 

"He  can't  stop  us  from  using  the  income  as 
we  like,"  Miss  Sarah  said. 

"No;  though  he  tries  to! — 'on  pain  of  his  dis 
pleasure'!  What  do  we  care  for  his  *  displeasure '! 
But,  Sarah,  don't  you  understand?  Before  we 
can  get  at  the  income,  to  give  it  to  Gertrude,  the 
will  must  go  to  probate;  and  then  everybody 

109 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

will  know  what  he  said — know  this  dreadful  lie 
about  Nick's  wife;  about  the  little  boys'  mother 
—our  sister!" 

Miss  Sarah  was  dumb. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  Sylvia  said, 
loudly. 

Sarah  Halsey  nodded. 

"We  had  better  go  down  to  the  library,"  Sylvia 
said,  in  a  low  voice;  "there's  a  fireplace  there." 

The  two  hurrying,  furtive  figures  went  swiftly 
down-stairs.  In  the  library  Sylvia  said:  "We'd 
better  close  the  shutters.  Somebody  might  look 
in." 

"No,"  Sarah  whispered;  "because  if  any  one 
saw  the  shutters  shut — they  might  think — " 

"So  they  might,"  Sylvia  agreed;  they  closed 
the  library  door;  there  was  a  great  jug  of  damask 
roses  in  the  empty  grate,  and  this  they  lifted, 
careful  not  to  scatter  the  dark-red  petals  on  the 
floor. 

"You'd  better  stand  at  the  window,  Sarah, 
and  don't  let  any  one  come  near  enough  to  the 
house  to — see." 

"Oh,  Sylly,"  the  older  sister  said,  gratefully, 
"you  are  so  brave!  I  couldn't  do  it!" 

She  went  over  to  one  of  the  long  French  windows 
that  opened  on  to  the  porch,  and  stood  there.  Oh, 
how  slow  Sylvia  was!  Why  didn't  she — do  it? 
She  was  just  about  to  turn  when  she  heard  the 
sharp  sound  of  tearing  paper.  Sheet  after  sheet 
torn  across  and  dropped  into  the  grate.  Then 

no 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

came  the  striking  of  a  match  and  the  spurt  of 
flame.  A  minute  later  there  was  the  tiny  crackle 
of  fire  and  the  smell  of  burning  paper.  Sarah 
leaned  against  the  casement  of  the  window;  she 
could  hear  the  muffled  sound  of  her  own  heart 
above  the  faint  sounds  of  the  flames. 

"It  is  done,"  Sylvia  said  at  last,  solemnly.  The 
older  woman  was  speechless.  She  came,  trembling, 
across  the  room,  and  looked  down  at  a  little  charred 
heap  in  the  grate.  Sylvia  was  perfectly  composed. 

"We  have  done  right,  Sarah,"  she  said;  "you 
must  never  think  but  what  we  have  done  right." 

"It  is  a  crime,  you  know,"  Miss  Sarah  said, 
with  dry  lips. 

"It  isn't  a  crime  to  stop  a  crime!" 

They  had  forgotten  the  open  window  now, 
and  clung  to  each  other,  one  crying,  the  other 
comforting;  then,  suddenly,  they  sprang  apart. 
There  was  a  step  on  the  path.  Dr.  Lavendar, 
under  a  big,  green  umbrella,  with  a  palm-leaf  fan 
in  his  hand,  was  coming  up  the  path  between  the 
flower-beds. 

When  he  reached  the  porch  he  lowered  his  um 
brella  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  wiped  his  forehead 
and  glanced  through  the  open  window.  "Shall  I 
come  in?"  he  called;  and  without  waiting  for 
their  reply  he  stepped  over  the  low  sill.  "Busy?" 
he  said.  "I  thought  I  would  come  and  see  how 
you  were  getting  along." 

"You  are  so  kind,  Dr.  Lavendar,"  Sarah  Halsey 

said,  breathlessly. 

in 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Well!"  he  said,  chuckling,  as  his  eye  fell  on 
the  smoldering  heap  in  the  grate,  "I  should  think 
eighty  in  the  shade  was  warm  enough  for  you 
without-  He  stopped  short,  his  face  changing 
abruptly.  He  gave  a  quick  look,  first  at  one  sister 
and  then  at  the  other.  Neither  spoke.  A  curling 
black  cinder  of  paper  fell  from  between  the  bars 
of  the  grate. 

"Do  sit  down,  sir,"  Sarah  said,  faintly. 
But  Dr.  Lavendar  walked  over  to  the  fireplace. 
The  air  tingled  with  silence.     Then  Miss  Sarah 
said,  with  a  sort  of  gasp:    "It  is  so  hot;    won't 
you  have  a  glass  of  water?" 

"No,"  he  said,  gravely.  Then  he  stooped  and 
picked  from  the  hearth  a  tiny  scrap  of  blue  paper. 
"You  have  been  burning— rubbish?"  he  said. 
There  was  no  answer.  With  the  little  piece  of 
paper  in  his  hand,  Dr.  Lavendar  turned  back  and 
sat  down  on  the  sofa.  There  were  a  few  vague 
words— about  the  heat,  about  the  big  strawberry 
that  Willy  King  had  found  on  his  vines  that  morn 
ing  and  brought  over  on  a  fresh  plantain-leaf  for 
Dr.  Lavendar's  breakfast,  about  anything  but 
the  "rubbish." 

Gradually  Sarah  Halsey  stopped  trembling. 
Sylvia,  who  had  not  spoken  since  he  entered,  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  grate,  her  spreading 
skirts  hiding  everything  behind  her;  as  the 
friendly,  simple  talk  went  on,  she  relaxed  a  little, 
and  the  color  came  slowly  back  into  her  strained, 
white  face.  It  seemed  hours  to  the  two  sisters, 


112 


THE    HARVEST   OF    FEAR 

but  it  was  only  a  very  little  while  that  the  old 
man  sat  there,  talking  gently  of  ordinary  things, 
but  with  his  eyes  plumbing  theirs. 

When  at  last  he  rose,  saying,  quietly,  "Let  me 
know  if  I  can  help  you,  girls,"  the  sisters  watched 
him  go  out  into  the  sunshine,  and  then  turned 
and  sobbed  in  each  other's  arms. 

"After  this,"  Sylvia  said— "after  this,  I'll  be 
-I'll  be— good." 

"You've  always  been  good!"  the  older  woman 
comforted  her.  "Dr.  Lavendar  himself  would  not 
say  anything  else." 

"Oh  yes,  he  would,"  Sylvia  said,  her  breath 
catching  in  her  throat ; '  *  yes,  he  would !  He  would 
say  that  this  happened  because  I  have  been  a 
coward;  oh,  Sarah!  a  coward  and — a  liar.  But 
he  would  have  pity — he  would  know — he  would 
remember— 

Dr.  Lavendar,  under  the  big,  green  umbrella, 
plodded  along  the  dusty  road  in  the  frowning 
preoccupation  of  that  "pity"  of  which  Sylvia  Hal- 
sey  was  so  sure.  *  *  Poor  children !"  he  was  saying  to 
himself.  "Poor  girls!  But  it's  Halsey's  sin.  He 
sowed  fear.  What  other  harvest  could  be  reaped? 
But  it  must  be  the  last  harvest.  The  girls  are 
mine,  now." 

In  the  dark  coolness  of  his  study  he  sipped  a 
glass  of  water  and  looked  at  that  scrap  of  blue 
paper.  There  was  nothing  written  on  it;  not  a 
single  betraying  word;  it  might  be  any  kind  of 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

' 'rubbish "—no  one  could  possibly  be  sure  what 
kind. 

"Ignorance  is  a  great  thing,"   Dr.   Lavendar 
meditated;  "a  blessed  thing!    I  don't  know  that 

t  was  the  will.  And  I  am  thankful  he  didn't  tell 
me  to  what  the  money  was  to  'revert,'  because 
then  it  might  have  been  my  duty  to  find  out." 
He  tore  the  paper  up  into  minute  scraps  and  sat 
holding  them  in  his  hand  for  several  minutes. 

That  poor  woman  and  her  babies  are  provided 
for,"  he  thought.  "But  suppose  I  had  come  ten 
minutes  earlier!" 

Then  he  got  up  and  dropped  the  little  handful 
into  his  waste-basket. 


THE    VOICE 


THE  VOICE 


DR.  LAVENDAR,"  said  William  King, 
"some  time  when  Goliath  is  doing  his 
2 140  on  a  plank  road,  don't  you  want  to  pull  up 
at  that  house  on  the  Perryville  pike  where  the 
Grays  used  to  live,  and  make  a  call?  An  old 
fellow  called  Roberts  has  taken  it;  he  is  a — " 

"Teach  your  grandmother,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar; 
"he  is  an  Irvingite.  He  comes  from  Lower  Ripple, 
down  on  the  Ohio,  and  he  has  a  daughter 
Philippa." 

"Oh,"  said  Dr.  King,  "you  know  'em,  do  you?" 

"Know  them?  Of  course  I  know  them!  Do 
you  think  you  are  the  only  man  who  tries  to  en 
large  his  business?  But  I  was  not  successful  in 
my  efforts.  The  old  gentleman  doesn't  go  to  any 
church;  and  the  young  lady  inclines  to  the 
Perryville  meeting-house — the  parson  there  is  a 
nice  boy." 

"She  is  an  attractive  young  creature,"  said  the 
doctor,  smiling  at  some  pleasant  memory;  "the 
kind  of  girl  a  man  would  like  to  have  for  a  daugh- 

117 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

ter.    But  did  you  ever  know  such  an  old-fashioned 
little  thing!" 

"Well,  she's  like  the  girls  I  knew  when  I  was 
the  age  of  the  Perryville  parson,  so  I  suppose 
you'd  call  her  old-fashioned,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said. 
" There  aren't  many  such  girls  nowadays;  sweet- 
tempered  and  sensible  and  with  some  fun  in  'em." 

"Why  don't  you  say  'good,'  too?"  William 
King  inquired. 

"Unnecessary,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  scratching 
Danny's  ear;  "anybody  who  is  amiable,  sensible, 
and  humorous  is  good.  Can't  help  it." 

"The  father  is  good,"  William  King  said,  "but 
he  is  certainly  not  sensible.  He's  an  old  donkey, 
with  his  Tongues  and  his  Voice!'1 

Dr.  Lavendar's  face  sobered.  "No,"  he  said, 
"he  may  be  an  Irvingite,  but  he  isn't  a  donkey." 

"What  on  earth  is  an  Irvingite,  anyhow?" 
William  asked. 

Dr.  Lavendar  looked  at  him  pityingly:  "Will 
iam,  you  are  so  ridiculously  young!  Well,  I 
suppose  you  can't  help  it.  My  boy,  about  the 
time  you  were  born,  there  was  a  man  in  London 
—some  folks  called  him  a  saint,  and  other  folks 
called  him  a  fool;  it's  a  way  folks  have  had  ever 
since  some  of  them  said  that  a  certain  Galilean 
peasant  had  a  devil.  His  name  was  Irving, 
and  he  started  a  new  sect."  (Dr.  Lavendar 
was  as  open-minded  as  it  is  possible  for  one 
of  his  Church  to  be,  but  even  he  said  "sect" 
when  it  came  to  outsiders.)  "He  started  this 

118 


THE    VOICE 

new  sect,  which  believed  that  the  Holy  Ghost 
would  speak  again  by  human  lips,  just  as  on 
the  Day  of  Pentecost.  Well,  there  was  'speaking' 
in  his  congregation;  sort  of  outbursts  of  exhorta 
tion,  you  know.  Mostly  unintelligible.  I  re 
member  Dr.  Alexander  said  it  was  'gibberish'; 
he  heard  some  of  it  when  he  was  in  London.  It 
may  have  been  'gibberish,'  but  nobody  can  doubt 
Irving's  sincerity  in  thinking  it  was  the  Voice  of 
God.  When  he  couldn't  understand  it,  he  just 
called  it  an  'unknown  tongue.'  Of  course  he  was 
considered  a  heretic.  He  was  put  out  of  his 
Church.  He  died  soon  after,  poor  fellow." 

"Doesn't  Mr.  Roberts's  everlasting  arguing 
about  it  tire  you  out?"  William  asked;  "when 
he  attacks  me,  I  always  remember  a  call  I  have 
to  make." 

"Oh,  no,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  cheerfully;  "after 
he  has  talked  about  half  an  hour,  I  just  shut  my 
eyes ;  he  never  notices  it !  He's  a  gentle  old  soul. 
When  I  answer  back — once  in  a  while  I  really 
have  to  speak  up  for  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church — I  feel  as  if  I  had  kicked  Danny." 

William  King  grinned.  Then  he  got  up  and, 
drawing  his  coat-tails  forward,  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  jug  of  lilacs  in  Dr.  Lavendar's  fire 
place,  and  yawned;  "oh,  well,  of  course  it's  all 
bosh,"  he  said;  "I  was  on  a  case  till  four  o'clock 
this  morning,"  he  apologized. 

"William,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  admiringly, 
"what  an  advantage  you  fellows  have  over  us 

119 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

poor  parsons!  Everything  a  medical  man  doesn't 
understand  is  'bosh.'  Now,  we  can't  classify 
things  as  easily  as  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  William  said,  doggedly; 
"from  my  point  of  view — " 

"From  your  point  of  view,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar, 
"St.  Paul  was  an  epileptic,  because  he  heard  a 
Voice?" 

"If  you  really  want  to  know  what  I  think — " 

"I  don't,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said;  "I  want  you 
to  know  what  I  think.  Mr.  Roberts  hasn't  heard 
any  Voice,  yet;  he  is  only  listening  for  it.  Will 
iam,  listening  for  the  Voice  of  God  isn't  necessarily 
a  sign  of  poor  health;  and  provided  a  man  doesn't 
set  himself  up  to  think  he  is  the  only  person  his 
Heavenly  Father  is  willing  to  speak  to,  listening 
won't  do  him  any  harm.  As  for  Henry  Roberts, 
he  is  a  humble  old  man.  An  example  to  me, 
William!  I  am  pretty  arrogant  once  in  a  while. 
I  have  to  be,  with  such  men  as  you  in  my  con 
gregation.  No ;  the  real  trouble  in  that  household 
is  that  girl  of  his.  It  isn't  right  for  a  young  thing 
to  live  in  such  an  atmosphere." 

William  agreed  sleepily.  "Pretty  creature. 
Wish  I  had  a  daughter  just  like  her,"  he  said, 
and  took  himself  off  to  make  up  for  a  broken 
night's  rest.  But  Dr.  Lavendar  and  Danny  still 
sat  in  front  of  the  lilac-filled  fireplace,  and  thought 
of  old  Henry  Roberts  listening  for  the  Voice  of 
God,  and  of  his  Philippa. 

The  father  and  daughter  had  lately  taken  a 
120 


DR.  LAVENDAR'S  BUGGY  PULLED  UP  AT  THKIR  GATE 


THE    VOICE 

house  on  a  road  that  wandered  over  the  hills 
from  Old  Chester  to  Perry ville.  They  were  about 
half-way  between  the  two  little  towns,  and  they 
did  not  seem  to  belong  to  either.  Perryville's 
small  manufacturing  bustle  repelled  the  silent  old 
man  whom  Dr.  Lavendar  called  an  ' '  Irvingite  " ; 
and  Old  Chester's  dignity  and  dull  aloofness  re 
pelled  young  Philippa.  The  result  was  that  the 
Robertses  and  their  one  woman-servant,  Hannah, 
had  been  living  on  the  Perryville  pike  for  some 
months  before  anybody  in  either  village  was  quite 
aware  of  their  existence.  Then  one  day  in  May 
Dr.  Lavendar's  buggy  pulled  up  at  their  gate, 
and  the  old  minister  called  over  the  garden  wall 
to  Philippa:  " Won't  you  give  me  some  of  your 
apple  blossoms?" 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Old  Chester's  knowl 
edge  of  the  Roberts  family.  A  little  later  Perry 
ville  came  to  know  them,  too:  the  Rev.  John 
Fenn,  pastor  of  the  Perryville  Presbyterian 
Church,  got  off  his  big,  raw-boned  Kentucky 
horse  at  the  same  little  white  gate  in  the  brick 
wall  at  which  Goliath  had  stopped,  and  walked 
solemnly — not  noticing  the  apple  blossoms — up 
to  the  porch.  Henry  Roberts  was  sitting  there 
in  the  warm  twilight,  with  a  curious  listening  look 
in  his  face — a  look  of  waiting  expectation;  it  was 
so  marked  that  the  caller  involuntarily  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  any  other  visitor  was 
approaching;  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  in 
the  dusk  but  the  roan  nibbling  at  the  hitching- 

121 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

post.  Mr.  Fenn  said  that  he  had  called  to  in 
quire  whether  Mr.  Roberts  was  a  regular  attendant 
at  any  place  of  worship.  To  which  the  old  man 
replied  gently  that  every  place  was  a  place  of 
worship,  and  his  own  house  was  the  House  of  God. 

John  Fenn  was  honestly  dismayed  at  such 
sentiments — dismayed,  and  a  little  indignant; 
and  yet,  somehow,  the  self-confidence  of  the  old 
man  daunted  him.  It  made  him  feel  very  young, 
and  there  is  nothing  so  daunting  to  Youth  as  to 
feel  young.  Therefore  he  said,  venerably,  that 
he  hoped  Mr.  Roberts  realized  that  it  was  pos 
sible  to  deceive  oneself  in  such  matters.  "It  is  a 
dangerous  thing  to  neglect  the  means  of  grace," 
he  said. 

"Surely  it  is,"  said  Henry  Roberts,  meekly; 
after  which  there  was  nothing  for  the  caller  to 
do  but  offer  the  Irvingite  a  copy  of  the  American 
Messenger  and  take  his  departure.  He  was  so 
genuinely  concerned  about  Mr.  Roberts's  "dan 
ger,"  that  he  did  not  notice  Philippa  sitting  on  a 
stool  at  her  father's  side.  But  Philippa  noticed 
him. 

So,  after  their  kind,  did  these  two  shepherds 
of  souls  endeavor  to  establish  a  relationship  with 
Henry  and  Philippa  Roberts.  And  they  were 
equally  successful.  Philippa  gave  her  apple  blos 
soms  to  the  old  minister — and  went  to  Mr.  Fenn's 
church  the  very  next  Sunday.  Henry  Roberts 
accepted  the  tracts  with  a  simple  belief  in  the 
kindly  purpose  of  the  young  minister,  and  stayed 

122 


THE    VOICE 

away  from  both  churches.  But  both  father  and 
daughter  were  pleased  by  the  clerical  attentions: 

"I  love  Dr.  Lavendar,"  Philippa  said  to  her 
father. 

"I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Fenn,"  her  father  said  to 
Philippa.  "The  youth,"  he  added,  "cares  for 
my  soul.  I  am  obliged  to  any  one  who  cares  for 
my  soul." 

He  was,  indeed,  as  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  a  man 
of  humble  mind;  and  yet  with  his  humbleness 
was  a  serene  certainty  of  belief  as  to  his  soul's 
welfare  that  would  have  been  impossible  to  John 
Fenn,  who  measured  every  man's  chance  of  sal 
vation  by  his  own  theological  yardstick — or  even 
to  Dr.  Lavendar,  who  thought  salvation  un- 
measurable.  But  then  neither  of  these  two  min 
isters  had  had  Henry  Roberts's  experience.  It 
was  very  far  back,  that  experience;  it  happened 
before  Philippa  was  born;  and  when  they  came 
to  live  between  the  two  villages  Philippa  was 
twenty -four  years  old.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  thirties  that  young  Roberts,  a 
tanner  in  Lower  Ripple,  went  to  England  to  col 
lect  a  small  bequest  left  him  by  a  relative.  The 
sense  of  distance,  the  long  weeks  at  sea  in  a  sail 
ing-vessel,  the  new  country  and  the  new  people, 
all  impressed  themselves  upon  a  very  sensitive 
mind,  a  mind  which,  even  without  such  emotional 
preparation,  was  ready  to  respond  to  any  deeply 
emotional  appeal.  Then  came  the  appeal.  It 
was  that  new  gospel  of  the  Tongues,  which,  in 
9  123 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

those  days,  astounded  and  thrilled  all  London 
from  the  lips  of  Edward  Irving — fanatic,  saint, 
and  martyr! — the  man  who,  having  prayed  that 
God  would  speak  again  in  prophecy,  would  not 
deny  the  power  of  prayer  by  refusing  to  believe 
that  his  prayer  was  answered,  even  though  the 
prophecy  was  unintelligible.  And  later,  when  the 
passionate  cadences  of  the  spirit  were  in  English, 
and  were  found  to  be  only  trite  or  foolish  words, 
repeated  and  repeated  in  a  wailing  chant  by 
some  sincere,  hysterical  woman,  he  still  believed 
that  a  new  day  of  Pentecost  had  dawned  upon  a 
sinful  world!  "For,"  said  he,  "when  I  asked  for 
bread,  would  God  give  me  a  stone?" 

Henry  Roberts  went  to  hear  the  great  preacher 
and  forgot  his  haste  to  receive  his  little  legacy 
so  that  he  might  hurry  back  to  the  tanyard. 
Irving's  eloquence  entranced  him,  and  it  alone 
would  have  held  him  longer  than  the  time  he 
had  allowed  himself  for  absence  from  the  tannery. 
But  it  happened  that  he  was  present  on  that 
Lord's  Day  when,  with  a  solemn  and  dreadful 
sound,  the  Tongues  first  spoke  in  that  dingy 
Chapel  in  Regent  Square — and  no  man  who  heard 
that  Sound  ever  forgot  it!  The  mystical  youth 
from  America  was  shaken  to  his  very  soul.  He 
stayed  on  in  London  for  nearly  a  year,  immersing 
himself  in  those  tides  of  emotion  which  swept 
saner  minds  than  his  from  the  somewhat  dry  land 
of  ordinary  human  experience.  That  no  personal 
revelation  was  made  to  him,  that  the  searing 

124 


THE    VOICE 

benediction  of  the  Tongues  had  not  touched  his 
own  awed,  uplifted  brow,  made  no  difference:  he 
believed! — and  prayed  God  to  help  any  lingering 
unbelief  that  might  be  holding  him  back  from 
deeper  knowledges.  To  the  end  of  his  days  he 
was  Edward  Irving's  follower;  and  when  he  went 
back  to  America  it  was  as  a  missionary  of  the 
new  sect,  that  called  itself  by  the  resounding  title 
of  The  Catholic  Apostolic  Church. 

In  Lower  Ripple  he  preached  to  any  who  would 
listen  to  him,  the  doctrine  of  the  new  Pentecost. 
At  first  curiosity  brought  him  hearers;  his  story 
of  the  Voice,  dramatic  and  mysterious,  was  lis 
tened  to  in  doubting  silence;  then  disapproved 
of — so  hotly  disapproved  of  that  he  was  sessioned 
and  read  out  of  Church.  But  in  those  days  in 
western  Pennsylvania,  mere  living  was  too  en 
grossing  a  matter  for  much  thought  of  "tongues" 
and  "voices";  it  was  easier,  when  a  man  talked 
of  dreams  and  visions,  not  to  argue  with  him, 
but  to  say  that  he  was  "crazy."  So  by  and  by- 
Henry  Roberts's  heresy  was  forgotten  and  his 
religion  merely  smiled  at.  Certainly  it  struck 
no  roots  outside  his  own  heart.  Even  his  family 
did  not  share  his  belief.  When  he  married,  as  he 
did  when  he  was  nearly  fifty,  his  wife  was  impatient 
with  his  Faith— indeed,  fearful  of  it,  and  with 
persistent,  nagging  reasonableness  urged  his  re 
turn  to  the  respectable  paths  of  Presbyterianism. 
To  his  pain,  when  his  girl,  his  Philippa,  grew  up 
she  shrank  from  the  emotion  of  his  creed;  she 

125 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

and  her  mother  went  to  the  brick  church  under 
the  locust-trees  of  Lower  Ripple;  and  when  her 
mother  died  Philippa  went  there  alone,  for  Henry 
Roberts,  not  being  permitted  to  bear  witness  in 
the  Church,  did  so  out  of  it,  by  sitting  at  home 
on  the  Sabbath  day,  in  a  bare  upper  chamber, 
waiting  for  the  manifestation  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 
It  never  came.  The  Tongues  never  spoke.  Yet 
still,  while  the  years  passed,  he  waited — listening 
—listening — listening;  a  kindly,  simple  old  man 
with  mystical  brown  eyes,  believing  meekly  in 
his  own  unworth  to  hear  again  that  Sound  from 
Heaven,  as  of  a  rushing,  mighty  wind,  that  had 
filled  the  London  Chapel,  bowing  human  souls 
before  it  as  a  great  wind  bows  the  standing  corn ! 

It  was  late  in  the  sixties  that  Henry  Roberts 
brought  his  faith  and  his  Philippa  to  the  stone 
house  on  the  Perry ville  pike,  where,  after  some 
months  had  passed,  they  were  discovered  by  the 
old  and  the  young  ministers.  The  two  clergy 
men  met  once  or  twice  in  their  calls  upon  the 
new-comer,  and  each  acquired  an  opinion  of 
the  other:  John  Fenn  said  to  himself  that  the 
old  minister  was  a  good  man,  if  he  was  an  Epis 
copalian;  and  Dr.  Lavendar  said  to  William 
King  that  he  hoped  there  would  be  a  match  be 
tween  the  "theolog"  and  Philippa. 

"The  child  ought  to  be  married  and  have  a 
dozen  children,"  he  said;  "Fenn's  little  sister  will 
do  to  begin  on — she  needs  mothering  badly 
enough!  Yes,  Miss  Philly  ought  to  be  Mrs.  Fenn, 

126 


THE    VOICE 

and  be  making  smearkase  and  apple-butter  for 
that  pale  and  excellent  young  man.  He  intimated 
that  I  was  a  follower  of  the  Scarlet  Woman  be 
cause  I  wore  a  surplice." 

"Now  look  here!  I  draw  the  line  at  that  sort 
of  talk,"  the  doctor  said;  "he  can  lay  down  the. 
law  to  me,  all  he  wants  to;  but  when  it  comes  to 
instructing  you — " 

"Oh,  well,  he's  young,"  Dr.  Lavendar  soothed 
him;  "you  can't  expect  him  not  to  know  every 
thing  at  his  age.  Remember  how  wise  you  were, 
Willy,  at  twenty-five.  You'll  never  know  as 
much  as  you  knew  then." 

"He's  a  squirt,"  said  William.  In  those  days 
middle-aged  Old  Chester  was  apt  to  sum  up  its 
opinion  of  youth  in  this  expressive  word. 

"We  were  all  squirts  once,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar, 
' '  and  very  nice  boys  we  were,  too — at  least  I  was. 
Yes,  I  hope  the  youngster  will  see  what  a  sweet 
creature  old  Roberts's  Philippa  is." 

She  was  a  sweet  creature;  but  as  William  King 
said,  she  was  amusingly  old-fashioned.  The  Old 
Chester  girl  of  those  days,  who  seems  (to  look 
back  upon  her  in  these  days)  so  medieval,  was 
modern  compared  to  Philippa!  But  there  was 
nothing  mystical  about  her;  she  was  just  modest 
and  full  of  pleasant  silences  and  soft  gaieties  and 
simple,  startling  truth-telling.  At  first,  when  they 
came  to  live  near  Perryville,  she  used,  on  Sundays, 
when  the  weather  was  fine,  to  walk  over  the  grassy 
road,  under  the  brown  and  white  branches  of  the 

127 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

sycamores  into  Old  Chester,  to  Dr.  Lavendar's 
church.     "I  like  to  come  to  your  church,"  she 
told  him,  "because  you  don't  preach  quite  such 
long  sermons  as  Mr.  Fenn  does."     But  when  it 
rained  or  was  very  hot  she  chose  the  shorter  walk 
and  sat  under  John  Fenn,  looking  up  at  his  pale, 
ascetic  face,  lighted  from  within  by  his  young  cer 
tainties  concerning  the  old  ignorances  of  people 
like  Dr.  Lavendar— life  and  death  and  eternity. 
Of  Dr.  Lavendar's  one  certainty,  Love,  he  was 
deeply    ignorant,   this   honest  boy,   who  was  so 
concerned  for  Philippa's  father's  soul!    But  Phi- 
lippa  did  not  listen  much  to  his  certainties;    she 
coaxed  his  little  sister  into  her  pew,  and  sat  with 
the  child  cuddled  up  against  her,  watching  her 
turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  hymn-book  or  trying 
to  braid  the  fringe  of  Miss  Philly's  black  silk 
mantilla    into    little    pigtails.      Sometimes    Miss 
Philly  would  look  up  at  the  careworn  young  face 
in  the  pulpit  and  think  how  holy  Mary's  brother 
was,  and  how  learned — and  how  shabby;    for  he 
had  only  a  housekeeper,   Mrs.   Semple,  to  take 
care  of  him  and  Mary.     Not  but  what  he  might 
have  had  somebody  besides  Mrs.  Semple!     Phi- 
lippa,  for  all  her  innocence,  could  not  help  being 
aware  that  he  might  have  had — almost  anybody! 
For  others  of  Philly's  sex  watched  the  rapt  face 
there  in  the  pulpit.     When  Philippa  thought  of 
that,  a  slow  blush  used  to  creep  up  to  her  very 
temples ;   she  was  ashamed,  as  many  other  women 
have  been — and  for  the  same  cause — of  her  sex. 

128 


THE   VOICE 

"They  think  they  are  religious,"  said  little  Philly 
to  herself,  "but  they  are  just  in  love!"  And  the 
blush  burned  still  hotter. 

So  it  happened  that  she  saw  Mr.  Fenn  oftener 
in  the  pulpit  than  out  of  it,  for  when  he  came  to 
call  on  her  father  she  made  a  point  of  keeping 
in  her  own  room,  or  in  the  kitchen  with  Hannah. 

At  first  he  came  very  frequently  to  see  the 
Irvingite,  because  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  "deal" 
with  him;  but  he  made  so  little  impression  that 
he  foresaw  the  time  when  it  would  be  necessary 
to  say  that  Ephraim  was  joined  to  his  idols. 

But  though  it  might  be  right  to  "let  him  alone," 
he  could  not  stop  calling  at  Henry  Roberts's 
house;  "for,"  he  reminded  himself,  "the  believing 
daughter  may  sanctify  the  unbelieving  father!" 
He  said  this  once  to  Dr.  Lavendar,  when  his  roan 
and  old  Goliath  met  in  a  narrow  lane  and  paused 
to  let  their  masters  exchange  a  word  or  two. 

"But  do  you  know  what  the  believing  daughter 
believes?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar.  He  wiped  his 
forehead  with  his  red  bandanna,  for  it  was  a 
hot  day;  then  he  put  his  old  straw  hat  very  far 
back  on  his  head  and  looked  at  the  young  man 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  which,  considering  the 
seriousness  of  their  conversation,  was  discomfiting; 
but,  after  all,  as  John  Fenn  reminded  himself, 
Dr.  Lavendar  was  very  old,  and  so  might  be  for 
given  if  his  mind  was  lacking  in  seriousness.  As 
for  his  question  of  what  the  daughter  believed : 

"I  think — I  hope,"  said  the  young  minister, 
129 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"that  she  is  sound.     She  comes  to  my  church 
quite  regularly." 

"But  she  comes  to  my  church  quite  irregularly," 
Dr.  Lavendar  warned  him;  and  there  was  an 
other  of  those  disconcerting  twinkles. 

The  boy  looked  at  him  with  honest,  solemn 
eyes.  "I  still  believe  that  she  is  sound,"  he  said, 
earnestly. 

Dr.  Lavendar  blew  his  nose  with  a  flourish  of 
the  red  bandanna.  "Well,  perhaps  she  is,  perhaps 
she  is,"  he  said,  gravely. 

But  the  reassurance  of  that  "perhaps"  did  not 
make  for  John  Fenn's  peace  of  mind;  he  could 
not  help  asking  himself  whether  Miss  Philippa 
was  a  "believing  daughter."  She  did  not,  he  was 
sure,  share  her  father's  heresies,  but  perhaps  she 
was  indifferent  to  them? — which  would  be  a 
grievous  thing!  And  certainly,  as  the  old  minister 
had  declared,  she  did  go  "irregularly"  to  the 
Episcopal  Church.  John  Fenn  wished  that  he 
was  sure  of  Miss  Philippa's  state  of  mind;  and 
at  last  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
find  out  about  it,  so,  with  his  little  sister  beside 
him,  he  started  on  a  round  of  pastoral  calls.  He 
found  Miss  Philly  sitting  in  the  sunshine  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  front  porch — and  it  seemed  to 
Mary  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  delay  in  getting 
at  the  serious  business  of  play ;  "for'brother  talks  so 
much,"  she  complained.  But  "brother"  went  on 
talking.  He  told  Miss  Philippa  that  he  understood 
she  went  sometimes  to  Old  Chester  to  church? 

130 


THE   VOICE 

"  Sometimes,"  she  said. 

"I  do  not  mean,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "to 
speak  uncharitably,  but  we  all  know  that  Epis 
copacy  is  the  handmaid  of  Papistry." 

"Do  we?"  Philly  asked,  with  grave  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Fenn.  "But  even  if  Dr.  Lav- 
endar's  teachings  are  defective," — Mary  plucked 
at  his  sleeve,  and  sighed  loudly;  "(no,  Mary!) 
— even  if  his  teachings  are  defective,  he  is  a  good 
man  according  to  his  lights;  I  am  sure  of  that. 
Still,  do  you  think  it  well  to  attend  a  place  of 
worship  when  you  cannot  follow  the  pastor's 
teachings?" 

"I  love  him.  And  I  don't  listen  to  what  he 
says,"  she  excused  herself. 

"But  you  should  listen  to  what  ministers  say," 
the  shocked  young  man  protested — "at  least  to 
ministers  of  the  right  faith.  But  you  should  not 
go  to  church  because  you  love  ministers." 

Philippa's  face  flamed.  "I  do  not  love — most 
of  them." 

Mary,  leaning  against  the  girl's  knee,  looked 
up  anxiously  into  her  face.  ' '  Do  you  love  brother  ?' ' 
she  said. 

They  were  a  pretty  pair,  the  child  and  the  girl, 
sitting  there  on  the  porch  with  the  sunshine  sift 
ing  down  through  the  lacy  leaves  of  the  two  big 
locusts  on  either  side  of  the  door.  Philippa  wore 
a  pink-and-green  palm-leaf  chintz;  it  had  six 
ruffles  around  the  skirt  and  was  gathered  very  full 
about  her  slender  waist;  her  lips  were  red,  and 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

her  cheeks  and  even  her  neck  were  delicately 
flushed;  her  red-brown  hair  was  blowing  all  about 
her  temples;  Mary  had  put  an  arm  around  her 
and  was  cuddling  against  her.  Yes,  even  Mary's 
brother  would  have  thought  the  two  young  things 
a  pretty  sight  had  there  been  nothing  more  seri 
ous  to  think  of.  But  John  Fenn's  thoughts  were 
so  very  serious  that  even  Mary's  question  caused 
him  no  embarrassment;  he  merely  said,  stiffly, 
that  he  would  like  to  see  Miss  Philippa  alone. 
"You  may  wait  here,  Mary,"  he  told  his  little 
sister,  who  frowned  and  sighed  and  went  out  to  the 
gate  to  pull  a  handful  of  grass  for  the  roan. 

Philippa  led  her  caller  to  her  rarely  used  par 
lor,  and  sat  down  to  listen  in  silent  pallor  to  his 
exhortations.  She  made  no  explanations  for  not 
coming  to  his  church  regularly;  she  offered  no 
excuse  of  filial  tenderness  for  her  indifference  to 
her  father's  mistaken  beliefs;  she  looked  down 
at  her  hands,  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap,  then  out 
of  the  window  at  the  big  roan  biting  at  the  hitch- 
ing-post  or  standing  very  still  to  let  Mary  rub 
his  silky  nose.  But  John  Fenn  looked  only  at 
Philippa.  Of  her  father's  heresies  he  would  not, 
he  said,  do  more  than  remind  her  that  the  wiles 
of  the  devil  against  her  soul  might  present  them 
selves  through  her  natural  affections;  but  in  re 
gard  to  her  failure  to  wait  upon  the  means  of 
grace  in  his  own  church,  he  spoke  without 
mercy,  for,  he  said,  "faithful  are  the  wounds  of 
a  friend." 

132 


THE   VOICE 

"Are  you  my  friend?"  Philly  asked,  lifting  her 
gray  eyes  suddenly. 

Mr.  Fenn  was  greatly  confused;  the  text-books 
of  the  Western  Seminary  had  not  supplied  him 
with  the  answer  to  such  a  question.  He  explained, 
hurriedly,  that  he  was  the  friend  of  all  who  wished 
for  salvation. 

"I  do  not  especially  wish  for  it,"  Philippa  said, 
very  low. 

For  a  moment  John  Fenn  was  silent  with  hor 
ror.  "That  one  so  young  should  be  so  hardened!" 
he  thought;  aloud,  he  bade  her  remember  hell 
fire.  He  spoke  with  that  sad  and  simple  accept 
ance  of  a  fact,  with  which,  even  less  than  fifty 
years  ago,  men  humbled  themselves  before  the 
mystery — which  they  had  themselves  created — of 
divine  injustice.  She  must  know,  he  said,  his 
voice  trembling  with  sincerity,  that  those  who 
slighted  the  offers  of  grace  were  cast  into  outer 
darkness  ? 

Philly  said,  softly,  "Maybe." 

"'Maybe'?  Alas,  it  is,  certainly!  Oh,  why, 
why  do  you  absent  yourself  from  the  house  of 
God?"  he  said,  holding  out  entreating  hands. 
Philippa  made  no  reply.  "Let  us  pray!"  said  the 
young  man;  and  they  knelt  down  side  by  side 
in  the  shadowy  parlor.  John  Fenn  lifted  his 
harsh,  melancholy  face,  gazing  upward  passion 
ately,  while  he  wrestled  for  her  salvation;  Philly, 
looking  downward,  tracing  with  a  trembling 
finger  the  pattern  of  the  beadwork  on  the  otto- 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

man  before  which  she  knelt,  listened  with'  an  in 
ward  shiver  of  dismay  and  ecstasy.  But  when 
they  rose  to  their  feet  she  had  nothing  to  say. 
He,  too,  was  silent.  He  went  away  quite  ex 
hausted  by  his  struggle  with  this  impassive,  un 
resisting  creature. 

He  hardly  spoke  to  Mary  all  the  way  home. 
"A  hardened  sinner,"  he  was  thinking.  "Poor, 
lovely  creature!  So  young  and  so  lost!"  Under 
Mary's  incessant  chatter,  her  tugs  at  the  end  of 
the  reins,  her  little  bursts  of  joy  at  the  sight  of 
a  bird  or  a  roadside  flower,  he  was  thinking,  with 
a  strange  new  pain — a  pain  no  other  sinner  had 
ever  roused  in  him — of  the  girl  he  had  left.  He 
knew  that  his  arguments  had  not  moved  her. 
"I  believe,"  he  thought,  the  color  rising  in  his 
face,  "that  she  dislikes  me!  She  says  she  loves 
Dr.  Lavendar;  yes,  she  must  dislike  me.  Is  my 
manner  too  severe?  Perhaps  my  appearance  is 
unattractive."  He  looked  down  at  his  coat  un 
easily. 

As  for  Philly,  left  to  herself,  she  picked  up  a 
bit  of  sewing,  and  her  face,  at  first  pale,  grew 
slowly  pink.  ' '  He  only  likes  sinners, ' '  she  thought ; 
"and,  oh,  I  am  not  a  sinner!" 


ii 

After  that  on  Sabbath  mornings  Philippa  sat 
with  her  father,  in  the  silent  upper  chamber.  At 
first  Henry  Roberts,  listening — listening — for  the 

134 


VOICE 

Voice,  thought,  rapturously,  that  at  the  eleventh 
hour  he  was  to  win  a  soul — the  most  precious 
soul  in  his  world!— to  his  faith.  But  when,  after 
a  while,  he  questioned  her,  he  saw  that  this  was 
not  so;  she  stayed  away  from  other  churches, 
but  not  because  she  cared  for  his  church.  This 
troubled  him,  for  the  faith  he  had  outgrown  was 
better  than  no  faith. 

"Do  you  have  doubts  concerning  the  soundness 
of  either  of  the  ministers — the  old  man  or  the 
young  man?"  he  asked  her,  looking  at  her  with 
mild,  anxious  eyes. 

1  'Oh  no,  sir,"  Philly  said,  smiling. 
"Do  you  dislike  them — the  young  man  or  the 
old  man?" 

"Oh  no,  father.     I  love — one  of  them." 
"Then  why  not  go  to  his  church?    Either  min 
ister  can  give  you  the  seeds  of  salvation;    one 
not   less    than   the   other.      Why   not   sit   under 
either  ministry?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Philippa  said,  faintly.  And 
indeed  she  did  not  know  why  she  absented  her 
self.  She  only  knew  two  things:  that  the  young 
man  seemed  to  disapprove  of  the  old  man;  and 
when  she  saw  the  young  man  in  the  pulpit,  im 
personal  and  holy,  she  suffered.  Therefore  she 
would  not  go  to  hear  either  man. 

When  Dr.  Lavendar  came  to  call  upon  her 
father,  he  used  to  glance  at  Philippa  sometimes 
over  his  spectacles  while  Henry  Roberts  was 
arguing  about  prophecies;  but  he  never  asked 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

her  why  she  stayed  away  from  church;  instead, 
he  talked  to  her  about  John  Fenn,  and  he  seemed 
pleased  when  he  heard  that  the  young  man  was 
doing  his  duty  in  making  pastoral  calls.  "And  I 
— I,  unworthy  as  I  was!"  Henry  Roberts  would 
say,  "I  heard  the  Voice,  speaking  through  a 
sister's  lips;  and  it  said:  Oh,  sinner!  for  what, 
for  what,  what  can  separate,  separate,  from  the 
love.  .  .  .  Oh,  nothing.  Oh,  nothing.  Oh,  noth 
ing."  He  would  stare  at  Dr.  Lavendar  with  parted 
lips.  "I  heard  it"  he  would  say,  in  a  whisper. 

And  Dr.  Lavendar,  bending  his  head  gravely, 
would  be  silent  for  a  respectful  moment,  and  then 
he  would  look  at  Philippa.  "You  are  teaching 
Fenn's  sister  to  sew?"  he  would  say.  "Very  nice! 
Very  nice!" 

Philly  saw  a  good  deal  of  'Fenn's  sister'  that 
summer;  the  young  minister,  recognizing  Miss 
Philippa's  fondness  for  Mary,  and  remembering  a 
text  as  to  the  leading  of  a  child,  took  pains  to 
bring  the  little  girl  to  Henry  Roberts's  door  once 
or  twice  a  week;  and  as  August  burned  away  in 
to  September  Philippa's  pleasure  in  her  was  like 
a  soft  wind  blowing  on  the  embers  of  her  heart 
and  kindling  a  flame  for  which  she  knew  no  name. 
She  thought  constantly  of  Mary,  and  had  many 
small  anxieties  about  her — her  dress,  her  manners, 
her  health ;  she  even  took  the  child  into  Old  Chester 
one  day  to  get  William  King  to  pull  a  little  loose 
white  tooth.  Philly  shook  very  much  during  the 
operation  and  mingled  her  tears  with  Mary's  in 

136 


THE   VOICE 

that  empty  and  bleeding  moment  that  follows 
the  loss  of  a  tooth.  She  was  so  passionately  tender 
with  the  little  girl  that  the  doctor  told  Dr.  Lav- 
endar  that  his  match-making  scheme  seemed  like 
ly  to  prosper — "she's  so  fond  of  the  sister — you 
should  have  heard  her  sympathize  with  the  little 
thing! — that  I  think  she  will  smile  on  the  brother," 
he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  the  brother  hasn't  cut  his  wisdom 
teeth  yet,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  doubtfully;  "if 
he  had,  you  might  pull  them,  and  she  could  sym 
pathize  with  him;  then  it  would  all  arrange  it 
self.  Well,  he's  a  nice  boy,  a  nice  boy; — and  he 
won't  know  so  much  when  he  gets  a  little  older." 

It  was  on  the  way  home  from  Dr.  King's  that 
Philippa's  feeling  of  responsibility  about  Mary 
brought  her  a  sudden  temptation.  They  were 
walking  hand  in  hand  along  the  road.  The 
leaves  on  the  mottled  branches  of  the  sycamores 
were  thinning  now,  and  the  sunshine  fell  warm 
upon  the  two  young  things,  who  were  still  a  little 
shaken  from  the  frightful  experience  of  tooth- 
pulling.  The  doctor  had  put  the  small  white 
tooth  in  a  box  and  gravely  presented  it  to  Mary, 
and  now,  as  they  walked  along,  she  stopped  some 
times  to  examine  it  and  say,  proudly,  how  she  had 
"bleededandbleeded!" 

"Will  you  tell  brother  the  doctor  said  I  behaved 
better  than  the  circus  lion  when  his  tooth  was 
pulled?" 

"Indeed  I  will,  Mary!" 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"An'  that  he  said  he'd  rather  pull  my  tooth 
than  a  lion's  tooth?" 

"Of  course  I'll  tell  him." 

"Miss  Philly,  shall  I  dream  of  my  tooth,  do 
you  suppose?" 

Philippa  laughed  and  said  she  didn't  know. 

"I  hope  I  will;  it  means  something  nice.  I 
forget  what,  now." 

"Dreams  don't  mean  anything,  Mary." 

"Oh  yes,  they  do!"  the  child  assured  her,  skip 
ping  along  with  one  arm  round  the  girl's  slender 
waist.  "Mrs.  Semple  has  a  dream-book,  an'  she 
reads  it  to  me  every  day,  an'  she  reads  me  what 
my  dreams  mean.  Sometimes  I  haven't  any 
dreams,"  Mary  admitted,  regretfully,  "but  she 
reads  all  the  same.  Did  you  ever  dream  about 
a  black  ox  walking  on  its  back  legs?  I  never  did. 
I  don't  want  to.  It  means  trouble." 

"Goosey!"  said  Miss  Philippa. 

"If  you  dream  of  the  moon,"  Mary  went  on, 
happily,  "it  means  you  are  going  to  have  a  beau 
who'll  love  you." 

"Little  girls  mustn't  talk  about  love,"  Philippa 
said,  gravely;  but  the  color  came  suddenly  into 
her  face.  To  dream  of  the  moon  means—  Why! 
but  only  the  night  before  she  had  dreamed  that 
she  had  been  walking  in  the  fields  and  had  seen 
the  moon  rise  over  shocks  of  corn  that  stood 
against  the  sky  like  the  plumed  heads  of  Indian 
warriors!  "Such  things  are  foolish,  Mary,"  Miss 
Philly  said,  her  cheeks  very  pink.  And  while 

138 


THE    VOICE 

Mary  chattered  on  about  Mrs.  Semple's  book, 
Philippa  was  silent,  remembering  how  yellow  the 
great  flat  disk  of  the  moon  had  been  in  her  dream; 
how  it  pushed  up  from  behind  the  black  edge  of 
the  world,  and  how,  suddenly,  the  misty  stubble- 
field  was  flooded  with  its  strange  light: — "you 
are  going  to  have  a  beau!" 

Philippa  wished  she  might  see  the  dream-book, 
just  to  know  what  sort  of  things  were  read  to  Mary. 
"It  isn't  right  to  read  them  to  the  child,"  she 
thought;  "it's  a  foolish  book,  Mary,"  she  said, 
aloud.  "I  never  saw  such  a  book." 

"I'll  bring  it  the  next  time  I  come,"  Mary 
promised. 

"Oh  no,  no,"  Philly  said,  a  little  breathlessly; 
"it's  a  wrong  book.  I  couldn't  read  such  a  book, 
except — except  to  tell  you  how  foolish  and  wrong 
it  is." 

Mary  was  not  concerned  with  her  friend's 
reasons;  but  she  remembered  to  bring  the  ragged 
old  book  with  her  the  very  next  time  her 
brother  dropped  her  at  Mr.  Roberts 's  gate  to 
spend  an  hour  with  Miss  Philippa.  There  had 
to  be  a  few  formal  words  between  the  preacher 
and  the  sinner  before  Mary  had  entire  possession 
of  her  playmate,  but  when  her  brother  drove  away, 
promising  to  call  for  her  later  in  the  afternoon, 
she  became  so  engrossed  in  the  important  task 
of  picking  hollyhock  seeds  that  she  quite  forgot 
the  dream-book.  The  air  was  hazy  with  autumn, 
and  full  of  the  scent  of  fallen  leaves  and  dew- 
10  139 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

drenched  grass  and  of  the  fresh  tan-bark  on  the 
garden  paths.  On  the  other  side  of  the  road  was 
a  corn-field,  where  the  corn  stood  in  great  shocks. 
Philly  looked  over  at  it,  and  drew  a  quick  breath 
— her  dream! 

"Did  you  bring  that  foolish  book?"  she  said. 

Mary,  slapping  her  pocket,  laughed  loudly. 
"I  'most  forgot!  Yes,  ma'am;  I  got  it.  I'll  show 
what  it  says  about  the  black  ox — " 

1  'No;  you  needn't,"  Miss  Philly  said;  "you 
pick  some  more  seeds  for  me,  and  I'll — just  look 
at  it."  She  touched  the  stained  old  book  with 
shrinking  finger-tips;  the  moldering  leather  cover 
and  the  odor  of  soiled  and  thumb-marked  leaves 
offended  her.  The  first  page  was  folded  over,  and 
when  she  spread  it  out,  the  yellowing  paper 
cracked  along  its  ancient  creases;  it  was  a  map, 
with  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac;  in  the  middle  was  a 
single  verse:  , 

Mortal!    Wouldst  thou  scan  aright 
Dreams  and  visions  of  the  night? 
Wouldst  thou  future  secrets  learn 
And  the  fate  of  dreams  discern? 
Wouldst  thou  ope  the  Curtain  dark 
And  thy  future  fortune  mark? 
Try  the  mystic  page,  and  read 
What  the  vision  has  decreed. 

Philly,  holding  her  red  lip  between  her  teeth, 
turned  the  pages: 

"Money.  To  dream  of  finding  money;  mourning 
and  loss. 

140 


THE    VOICE 

"Monkey.     You  have  secret  enemies. 

"Moon.1'1  (Philippa  shivered.)  "A  good  omen; 
it  denotes  coming  joy.  Great  success  in  love." 

She  shut  the  book  sharply,  then  opened  it 
again.  Such  books  sometimes  told  (so  foolishly!) 
of  charms  which  would  bring  love.  She  looked 
furtively  at  Mary;  but  the  child,  pulling  down 
a  great  hollyhock  to  pick  the  fuzzy  yellow  disks, 
was  not  noticing  Miss  Philly's  interest  in  the 
"foolish  book."  Philippa  turned  over  the  pages. 
Yes;  the  charms  were  there!  .  .  . 

Instructions    for    making    dumb-cake,    to    cut 
which  reveals  a  lover:     "Any  number  of  young 
females  shall  take  a  handful  of  wheaten  flour— 
That  was  no  use;    there  were  too  many  'young 
females'  as  it  was! 

' '  To  know  whether  a  man  shall  have  the  woman 
he  wishes."  Philippa  sighed.  Not  that.  A  holy 
man  does  not  "wish"  for  a  woman. 

"A  charm  to  charm  a  man's  love"  The  blood 
suddenly  rang  tingling  in  Philly's  veins.  "Let  a 
young  maid  pick  of  rosemary  two  roots;  of  monk's- 
hood — "  A  line  had  been  drawn  through  this 
last  word,  and  another  word  written  above  it; 
but  the  ink  was  so  faded,  the  page  so  woolly  and 
thin  with  use,  that  it  was  impossible  to  decipher 
the  correction;  perhaps  it  was  "motherwort," 
an  herb  Philly  did  not  know;  or  it  might  be 
"mandrake"?  It  looked  as  much  like  one  as 
the  other,  the  writing  was  so  blurred  and  dim. 
"It  is  best  to  take  what  the  book  says,"  Philly 

141 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

said,  simply;  "besides,  I  haven't  those  other 
things  in  the  garden,  and  I  have  monk's-hood  and 
rosemary — if  I  should  want  to  do  it,  just  for  fun." 

"  Of  monk's-hood  two  roots,  and  of  the  flower  of 
corn  ten  threads;  let  her  sleep  on  them  one  night. 
In  the  morning  let  her  set  them  on  her  heart  and 
walk  backwards  ten  steps,  praying  for  the  love  of  her 
beloved.  Let  her  then  steep  and  boil  these  things  in 
four  gills  of  pure  water  on  which  the  moon  has  shone 
for  one  night.  When  she  -shall  add  this  philter  to 
the  drink  of  the  one  who  loves  her  not,  he  shall  love 
the  female  who  meets  his  eye  first  after  the  drink 
ing  thereof.  Therefore  let  the  young  maid  be  indus 
trious  to  stand  before  him  when  he  shall  drink  it." 

"There  is  no  harm  in  it,"  said  Philly. 

in 

"Somebody  making  herb  tea  and  stealing  my 
business?"  said  William  King,  in  his  kindly  voice; 
he  had  called  to  see  old  Hannah,  who  had  been 
laid  up  for  a  day  or  two,  and  he  stopped  at  the 
kitchen  door  to  look  in.  Henry  Roberts,  coming 
from  the  sitting-room  to  join  him,  asked  his  ques 
tion,  too: 

"What  is  this  smell  of  herbs,  Philippa?  Are 
you  making  a  drink  for  Hannah?" 

"Oh  no,  father,"  Philly  said,  briefly,  her  face 
very  pink. 

William  King  sniffed  and  laughed.  "Ah,  I  see 
you  don't  give  away  your  secrets  to  a  rival,"  he 

142 


THE    VOICE 

said;  and  added,  pleasantly,  "but  don't  give  your 
tea  to  Hannah  without  telling  me  what  it  is." 

Miss  Philippa  said,  dutifully,  "Oh  no,  sir." 
But  she  did  not  tell  him  what  the  "tea"  was, 
and  certainly  she  offered  none  of  it  to  old  Hannah. 
All  that  day  there  was  a  shy  joyousness  about  her, 
with  sudden  soft  blushes,  and  once  or  twice  a 
little  half -frightened  laugh;  there  was  a  puzzled 
look,  too,  in  her  face,  as  if  she  was  not  quite  sure 
just  what  she  was  going  to  do,  or  rather,  how  she 
was  going  to  do  it.  And,  of  course,  that  was  the 
difficulty.  How  could  she  "add  the  philter  to 
the  drink  of  one  who  loved  her  not"? 

Yet  it  came  about  simply  enough.  John  Fenn 
had  lately  felt  it  borne  in  upon  him  that  it  was 
time  to  make  another  effort  to  deal  with  Henry 
Roberts;  perhaps,  he  reasoned,  to  show  concern 
about  the  father's  soul  might  touch  the  daughter's 
hardened  heart.  It  was  when  he  reached  this 
conclusion  that  he  committed  the  extravagance 
of  buying  a  new  coat.  So  it  happened  that  that 
very  afternoon,  while  the  house  was  still  pungent 
with  the  scent  of  steeping  herbs,  he  came  to 
Henry  Roberts's  door,  and  knocked  solemnly,  as 
befitted  his  errand;  (but  as  he  heard  her  step  in 
the  hall  he  passed  an  anxious  hand  over  a  lapel 
of  the  new  coat).  Her  father,  she  said,  was  not 
at  home;  would  Mr.  Fenn  come  in  and  wait  for 
him?  Mr.  Fenn  said  he  would.  And  as  he  always 
tried,  poor  boy!  to  be  instant  in  season  and  out 
of  season,  he  took  the  opportunity,  while  he  waited 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

for  her  father  and  she  brought  him  a  glass  of  wine 
and  a  piece  of  cake,  to  reprove  her  again  for  ab 
sence  from  church.  But  she  was  so  meek  that  he 
found  it  hard  to  inflict  those  "faithful  wounds" 
which  should  prove  his  friendship  for  her  soul; 
she  sat  before  him  on  the  slippery  horsehair  sofa 
in  the  parlor,  her  hands  locked  tightly  together 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  downcast,  her  voice  very  low 
and  trembling.  She  admitted  her  backslidings : 
she  acknowledged  her  errors;  but  as  for  coming 
to  church — she  shook  her  head: 

"Please,  I  won't  come  to  church  yet." 

"You  mean  you  will  come,  sometime?" 

"Yes;    sometime." 

"Behold,  now  is  the  accepted  time!" 

"I  will  come  .  .  .  afterwards." 

"After  what?"  he  insisted. 

"After—  '  she  said,  and  paused.  Then  sud 
denly  lifted  bold,  guileless  eyes:  "After  you  stop 
caring  for  my  soul." 

John  Fenn  caught  his  breath.  Something,  he 
did  not  know  what,  seemed  to  jar  him  rudely 
from  that  pure  desire  for  her  salvation;  he  said, 
stumblingly,  that  he  would  always  care  for  her 
soul! — "for — for  any  one's  soul."  And  was  she 
quite  well?  His  voice  broke  with  tenderness. 
She  must  be  careful  to  avoid  the  chill  of  these 
autumnal  afternoons;  "you  are  pale,"  he  said, 
passionately — "don't — oh,  don't  be  so  pale!"  It 
occurred  to  him  that  if  she  waited  for  him  "not 
to  care"  for  her  salvation,  she  might  die  in  her 

144 


THE    VOICE 

sins;  die  before  coining  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 
which  he  was  so  anxious  to  open  to  her! 

Philippa  did  not  see  his  agitation;  she  was  not 
looking  at  him.  She  only  said,  softly,  "Perhaps 
you  will  stay  to  tea?" 

He  answered  quickly  that  he  would  be  pleased 
to  do  so.  In  the  simplicity  of  his  saintly  egotism 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  religious  pleasure  of 
entertaining  him  might  be  a  means  of  grace  to  her. 
When  she  left  him  in  the  dusk  of  the  chilly  room 
to  go  and  see  to  the  supper,  he  fell  into  silent 
prayer  for  the  soul  that  did  not  desire  his  care. 

Henry  Roberts,  summoned  by  his  daughter  to 
entertain  the  guest  until  supper  was  ready,  found 
him  sitting  in  the  darkness  of  the  parlor;  the  old 
man  was  full  of  hospitable  apologies  for  his  Phi- 
lippa's  forge tfulness ;  "she  did  not  remember  the 
lamp!"  he  lamented;  and  making  his  way  through 
the  twilight  of  the  room,  he  took  off  the  prism- 
hung  shade  of  the  tall  astral  lamp  on  the  center- 
table,  and  fumbled  for  a  match  to  light  the  charred 
and  sticky  wick;  there  were  very  few  occasions 
in  this  plain  household  when  it  was  worth  while 
to  light  the  best  lamp!  This  was  one  of  them, 
for  in  those  days  the  office  dignified  the  man  to 
a  degree  that  is  hardly  understood  now.  But 
Henry  Roberts's  concern  was  not  entirely  a  mat 
ter  of  social  propriety ;  it  was  a  desire  to  propitiate 
this  young  man  who  was  living  in  certain  errors 
of  belief,  so  that  he  would  be  in  a  friendly  attitude 
of  mind  and  open  to  the  arguments  which  were 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

always  burning  on  the  lips  of  Edward  Irving 's 
follower.  He  did  not  mean  to  begin  them  until 
they  were  at  supper;  so  he  and  John  Fenn  sat  in 
silence  waiting  Philippa's  summons  to  the  dining- 
room.  Neither  of  them  had  any  small  talk;  Mr. 
Roberts  was  making  sure  that  he  could  trust  his 
memory  to  repeat  those  wailing  cadences  of  the 
Voice,  and  John  Fenn,  still  shaken  by  something 
he  could  not  understand  that  had  been  hidden 
in  what  he  understood  too  well — a  sinner's  indif 
ference  to  grace — was  trying  to  get  back  to  his 
serene,  impersonal  arrogance. 

As  for  Philippa,  she  was  frightened  at  her 
temerity  in  having  invited  the  minister  to  a 
Hannahless  supper;  her  flutter  of  questions  as 
to  "what"  and  "how"  brought  the  old  woman 
from  her  bed,  in  spite  of  the  girl's  half-hearted 
protests  that  she  "mustn't  think  of  getting  up! 
Just  tell  me  what  to  do,"  she  implored,  "I  can 
manage.  We  are  going  to  have — tea!'1 

"We  always  have  tea,"  Hannah  said,  sourly; 
yet  she  was  not  really  sour,  for,  like  William  King 
and  Dr.  Lavendar,  Hannah  had  discerned  pos 
sibilities  in  the  Rev.  John  Fenn's  pastoral  visits. 
"Get  your  Sunday-go-to-meeting  dress  on,"  she 
commanded,  hunching  a  shawl  over  a  rheumatic 
shoulder  and  motioning  the  girl  out  of  the  kitchen. 

Philippa,  remorseful  and  breathless,  ran  quickly 
up  to  her  room  to  put  on  her  best  frock,  smooth 
her  shining  hair  down  in  two  loops  over  her  ears, 
and  pin  her  one  adornment,  a  flat  gold  brooch, 

146 


THE    VOICE 

on  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  She  lifted  her  candle 
and  looked  at  herself  in  the  black  depths  of  the 
little  swinging  glass  on  her  high  bureau,  and  her 
face  fell  into  sudden  wistful  lines.  "Oh,  I  do  not 
look  wicked,"  she  thought,  despairingly. 

John  Fenn,  glancing  at  her  across  the  supper- 
table,  had  some  such  thought  himself;  how 
strange  that  one  so  perverted  in  belief,  should 
not  betray  perversion  in  her  countenance!  "On 
the  contrary,  her  face  is  pleasing,"  he  said, 
simply.  He  feared,  noticing  the  brooch,  that  she 
was  vain,  as  well  as  indifferent  to  her  privileges; 
he  wondered  if  she  had  observed  his  new  coat. 

Philippa's  vanity  did  not,  at  any  rate,  give 
her  much  courage;  she  scarcely  spoke,  except  to 
ask  him  whether  he  took  cream  and  sugar  in  his 
tea.  When  she  handed  his  cup  to  him,  she  said, 
very  low,  "Will  you  taste  it,  and  see  if  it  is  right  ?" 

He  was  so  conscious  of  the  tremor  of  her  voice 
and  hand  that  he  made  haste  to  reassure  her, 
sipping  his  tea  with  much  politeness  of  manner; 
as  he  did  so,  she  said,  suddenly,  and  with  com 
pelling  loudness,  "Is  it — agreeable?" 

John  Fenn,  startled,  looked  at  her  over  the. 
rim  of  his  cup.  "Very;  very  indeed,"  he  said, 
quickly.  But  he  instantly  drank  some  water. 
"It  is,  perhaps,  a  little  strong,"  he  said,  blinking. 
Then,  having  qualified  his  politeness  for  conscience' 
sake,  he  drank  all  the  bitter  tea  for  human  kind 
ness'  sake — for  evidently  Miss  Philippa  had  taken 
pains  to  give  him  what  he  might  like.  After  that 

147 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

she  did  not  speak,  but  her  face  grew  very  rosy 
while  she  sat  in  silence  listening  to  her  father  and 
their  guest.  Henry  Roberts  forgot  to  eat,  in  the 
passion  of  his  theological  arguments,  but  as  sup 
per  proceeded  he  found  his  antagonist  less  alert 
than  usual;  the  minister  defended  his  own  doc 
trines  instead  of  attacking  those  of  his  host;  he 
even  admitted,  a  little  listlessly,  that  if  the  Power 
fell  upon  him,  if  he  himself  spoke  in  a  strange 
tongue,  then  perhaps  he  would  believe — "that  is, 
if  I  could  be  sure  I  was  not  out  of  my  mind  at 
the  time,"  he  qualified,  dully.  Philippa  took  no 
part  in  the  discussion;  it  would  not  have  been 
thought  becoming  in  her  to  do  so;  but  indeed, 
she  hardly  heard  what  the  two  men  were  saying. 
She  helped  old  Hannah  carry  away  the  dishes, 
and  then  sat  down  by  the  table  and  drew  the 
lamp  near  her  so  that  she  could  sew;  she  sat 
there  smiling  a  little,  dimpling  even,  and  looking 
down  at  her  seam;  she  did  not  notice  that  John 
Fenn  was  being  worsted,  or  that  once  he  failed 
altogether  to  reply,  and  sat  in  unprotesting  silence 
under  Henry  Roberts' s  rapt  remembrances.  A 
curious  blackness  had  settled  under  his  eyes,  and 
twice  he  passed  his  hand  across  his  lips. 

"They  are  numb,"  he  said  in  surprised  apology 
to  his  host.  A  moment  later  he  shivered  violently, 
beads  of  sweat  burst  out  on  his  forehead,  and 
the  color  swept  from  his  face.  He  started  up, 
staring  wildly  about  him;  he  tried  to  speak,  but 
his  words  stumbled  into  incoherent  babbling. 

148 


THE   VOICE 

It  was  all  so  sudden,  his  rising,  then  falling  back 
into  his  chair,  then  slipping  sidewise  and  crumpling 
up  upon  the  floor,  all  the  while  stammering  un 
meaning  words — that  Henry  Roberts  sat  looking 
at  him  in  dumb  amazement.  It  was  Philippa  who 
cried  out  and  ran  forward  to  help  him,  then 
stopped  midway,  her  hands  clutched  together  at 
her  throat,  her  eyes  dilating  with  a  horror  that 
seemed  to  paralyze  her  so  that  she  was  unable  to 
move  to  his  assistance.  The  shocked  silence  of 
the  moment  was  broken  by  Fenn's  voice,  trailing 
on  and  on,  in  totally  unintelligible  words. 

Henry  Roberts,  staring  open-mouthed,  suddenly 
spoke:  "The  Voice!"  he  said. 

But  Philippa,  as  though  she  were  breaking 
some  invisible  bond  that  held  her,  groaning  even 
with  the  effort  of  it,  said,  in  a  whisper:  "No. 
Not  that.  He  is  dying.  Don't  you  see?  That's 
what  it  is.  He  is  dying." 

Her  father,  shocked  from  his  ecstasy,  ran  to 
John  Fenn's  side,  trying  to  lift  him  and  calling 
upon  him  to  say  what  was  the  matter. 

"He  is  going  to  die,"  said  Philippa,  monoto 
nously. 

Henry  Roberts,  aghast,  calling  loudly  to  old 
Hannah,  ran  to  the  kitchen  and  brought  back 
a  great  bowl  of  hot  water.  "Drink  it!"  he  said. 
"Drink  it,  I  tell  ye!  I  believe  you're  poisoned!" 

And  while  he  and  Hannah  bent  over  the  un 
conscious  young  man,  Philippa  seemed  to  come 
out  of  her  trance;  slowly,  with  upraised  hands, 

149 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

and  head  bent  upon  her  breast,  she  stepped  back 
ward,  backward,  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  house. 
On  the  door-step,  in  the  darkness,  she  paused  and 
listened  for  several  minutes  to  certain  dreadful 
sounds  in  the  house.  Then,  suddenly,  a  passion 
of  purpose  swept  the  daze  of  horror  away. 

"He  shall  not  die,"  she  said. 

She  flung  her  skirt  across  her  arm  that  her 
feet  might  not  be  hampered,  and  fled  down  the 
road  toward  Old  Chester.  It  was  very  dark. 
At  first  her  eyes,  still  blurred  with  the  lamplight, 
could  not  distinguish  the  foot-path,  and  she 
stumbled  over  the  grassy  border  into  the  wheel- 
ruts;  then,  feeling  the  loose  dust  under  her  feet, 
she  ran  and  ran  and  ran.  The  blood  began  to 
sing  in  her  ears;  once  her  throat  seemed  to  close 
so  that  she  could  not  breathe,  and  for  a  moment 
she  had  to  walk, — but  her  hands,  holding  up  her 
skirts,  trembled  with  terror  at  the  delay.  The 
road  was  very  dark  under  the  sycamore-trees; 
twice  she  tripped  and  fell  into  the  brambles  at 
one  side  or  against  a  gravelly  bank  on  the  other. 
But  stumbling  somehow  to  her  feet,  again  she 
ran  and  ran  and  ran.  The  night  was  very  still; 
she  could  hear  her  breath  tearing  her  throat; 
once  she  felt  something  hot  and  salty  in  her  mouth ; 
it  was  then  she  had  to  stop  and  walk  for  a  little 
space — she  must  walk  or  fall  down!  And  she 
could  not  fall  down,  no!  no!  no!  he  would  die  if 
she  fell  down!  Once  a  figure  loomed  up  in  the 
haze,  and  she  caught  the  glimmer  of  an  inquisitive 

150 


THE    VOICE 

eye.  "Say,"  a  man's  voice  said,  "where  are  you 
bound  for?"  There  was  something  in  the  tone 
that  gave  her  a  stab  of  fright ;  for  a  minute  or  two 
her  feet  seemed  to  fly,  and  she  heard  a  laugh  be 
hind  her  in  the  darkness:  "What's  your  hurry?" 
the  voice  called  after  her.  And  still  she  ran. 
But  she  was  saying  to  herself  that  she  must  stop; 
she  must  stand  still — just  for  a  moment.  "Oh, 
just  for  a  minute?"  her  body  whimperingly  en 
treated;  she  would  not  listen  to  it!  She  must 
not  listen,  even  though  her  heart  burst  with  the 
strain.  But  her  body  had  its  way,  and  she  fell 
into  a  walk,  although  she  was  not  aware  of  it. 
In  a  gasping  whisper  she  was  saying,  over  and 
over:  ''Doctor,  hurry;  he'll  die;  hurry;  I  killed 
him."  She  tried  to  be  silent,  but  her  lips  moved 
mechanically.  "Doctor,  hurry;  he'll —  Oh,  I 
mustn't  talk!"  she  told  herself,  "it  takes  my 
breath" — but  still  her  lips  moved.  She  began  to 
run,  heavily.  "I  can't  talk — if — I — run—  It 
was  then  that  she  saw  a  glimmer  of  light  and 
knew  that  she  was  almost  in  Old  Chester.  Very 
likely  she  would  have  fallen  if  she  had  not  seen 
that  far-off  window  just  when  she  did. 

At  William  King's  house  she  dropped  against 
the  door,  her  fingers  still  clinging  to  the  bell. 
She  was  past  speaking  when  the  doctor  lifted  her 
and  carried  her  into  the  office.  "No;  don't  try 
to  tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  said;  "I'll  put  Jinny 
into  the  buggy,  and  we'll  get  back  in  a  jiffy.  I 
understand:  Hannah  is  worse." 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Not  ...  Hannah—" 

"Your  father?"  he  said,  picking  up  his  medicine- 
case. 

"Not  father;    Mr.— Fenn— " 

As  the  doctor  hurried  out  to  the  stable  to  hitch 
up  he  bade  his  wife  put  certain  remedies  into  his 
bag, — "and  look  after  that  child,"  he  called  over 
his  shoulder  to  his  efficient  Martha.  She  was  so 
efficient  that  when  he  had  brought  Jinny  and  the 
buggy  to  the  door,  Philly  was  able  to  gasp  out 
that  Mr.  Fenn  was  sick.  "Dying." 

"Don't  try  to  talk,"  he  said  again,  as  he  helped 
her  into  the  buggy.  But  after  a  while  she  was 
able  to  tell  him,  hoarsely: 

"I  wanted  him  to  love  me."  William  King  was 
silent.  "I  used  a  charm.  It  was  wicked." 

"Come,  come;  not  wicked,"  said  the  doctor; 
"a  little  foolish,  perhaps.  A  new  frock,  and  a 
rose  in  your  hair,  and  a  smile  at  another  man, 
would  be  enough  of  a  charm,  my  dear." 

Philippa  shook  her  head.  "It  was  not  enough. 
I  wore  my  best  frock,  and  I  went  to  Dr.  Lavendar's 
church— 

"Good  gracious!"  said  William  King. 

"They  were  not  enough.  So  I  used  a  charm. 
I  made  a  drink— 

"Ah!"  said  the  doctor,  frowning.  "What  was 
in  the  drink,  Miss  Philly?" 

"Perhaps  it  was  not  the  right  herb,"  she  said; 
"it  may  have  been  'motherwort';  but  the  book 
said  'monk's-hood,'  and  I—" 

152 


THE   VOICE 

William  King  reached  for  his  whip  and  cut 
Jinny  across  the  flanks.  "Aconite!"  he  said  under 
his  breath,  while  Jinny  leaped  forward  in  shocked 
astonishment. 

"Will  he  live?"  said  Philippa. 

Dr.  King,  flecking  Jinny  again,  and  letting  his 
reins  hang  over  the  dash-board,  could  not  help 
putting  a  comforting  arm  around  her.  "I  hope 
so,"  he  said;  "I  hope  so!"  After  all,  there  was  no 
use  telling  the  child  that  probably  by  this  time 
her  lover  was  either  dead  or  getting  better. 
"It's  his  own  fault,"  William  King  thought, 
angrily.  "Why  in  thunder  didn't  he  fall  in  love 
like  a  man,  instead  of  making  the  child  resort  to — 
G'on,  Jinny!  G'on!" 

He  still  had  the  whip  in  his  hand  when  they  drew 
up  at  the  gate. 

IV 

When  Philippa  Roberts  had  fled  out  into  the 
night  for  help,  her  father  and  old  Hannah  were 
too  alarmed  to  notice  her  absence.  They  went 
hurrying  back  and  forth  with  this  remedy  and 
that.  Again  and  again  they  were  ready  to  give 
up;  once  Henry  Roberts  said,  "He  is  gone!"  and 
once  Hannah  began  to  cry,  and  said,  "Poor  lad, 
poor  boy'"  Yet  each  made  one  more  effort,  their 
jostling  shadows  looming  gigantic  against  the 
walls  or  stretching  across  the  ceiling,  bending  and 
sinking  as  they  knelt  beside  the  poor  young  man, 
who  by  that  time  was  far  beyond  speech.  So 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

the  struggle  went  on,  and  little  by  little  life  began 
to  gain.  John  Fenn's  eyes  opened.  Then  he 
smiled.  Then  he  said  something — they  could 
not  hear  what. 

"Bless  the  Lord!"  said  Henry  Roberts. 

"He's  asking  for  Philly,"  said  old  Hannah. 

By  the  time  the  doctor  and  Philippa  reached 
the  house  the  shadow  of  death  had  lifted. 

"It  must  have  been  poison,"  Mr.  Roberts 
told  the  doctor.  "When  he  gets  over  it  he  will 
tell  us  what  it  was." 

"I  don't  believe  he  will,"  said  William  King; 
he  was  holding  Fenn's  wrist  between  his  firm 
fingers,  and  then  he  turned  up  a  fluttering  eyelid 
and  looked  at  the  still  dulled  eye. 
^  Philippa,  kneeling  on  the  other  side  of  John 
Fenn,  said  loudly:  "I  will  tell  him — and  perhaps 
God  will  forgive  me." 

The  doctor,  glancing  up  at  her,  said:  "No, 
you  won't— anyhow  at  present.  Take  that  child 
up-stairs,  Hannah,"  he  commanded,  "and  put 
her  to  bed.  Don't  let  her  talk.  She  ran  all  the 
way  to  Old  Chester  to  get  me,"  he  explained  to 
Henry  Roberts. 

Before  he  left  the  house  that  night  he  sat  for 
a  few  minutes  at  Philippa's  bedside.  "My  dear 
little  girl,"  he  said,  in  his  kind,  sensible  voice, 
"the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  forget  it.  It  was  a 
foolish  thing  to  do— that  charm  business;  but 
happily  no  harm  is  done.  Now  say  nothing 
about  it,  and  never  do  it  again." 


THE   VOICE 

Philippa  turned  her  shuddering  face  away. 
"Do  it  again?  Oh!" 

As  William  King  went  home  he  apologized  to 
Jinny  for  that  cut  across  her  flanks  by  hanging 
the  reins  on  the  overhead  hook  and  letting  her 
plod  along  at  her  own  pleasure.  He  was  saying 
to  himself  that  he  hoped  he  had  done  right  to 
tell  the  child  to  hold  her  tongue.  "It  was  just 
tomfoolery,"  he  argued;  "there  was  no  sin  about 
it,  so  confession  wouldn't  do  her  any  good;  on 
the  contrary,  it  would  hurt  a  girl's  self-respect 
to  have  a  man  know  she  had  tried  to  catch  him. 
But  what  a  donkey  he  was  not  to  see.  .  .  .  Oh  yes ; 
I'm  sure  I'm  right,"  said  William  King.  "I  won 
der  how  Dr.  Lavendar  would  look  at  it?" 

Philippa,  at  any  rate,  was  satisfied  with  his 
advice.  Perhaps  the  story  of  what  she  had  done 
might  have  broken  from  her  pale  lips  had  her 
father  asked  any  questions;  but  Henry  Roberts 
had  retreated  into  troubled  silence.  There  had 
been  one  wonderful  moment  when  he  thought 
that  at  last  his  faith  was  to  be  justified  and  by 
the  unbeliever  himself!  and  he  had  cried  out, 
with  a  passion  deferred  for  more  than  thirty  years : 
"The  Voice!"  But  behold,  the  voice,  babbling 
and  meaningless,  was  nothing  but  sickness.  No 
one  could  guess  what  the  shock  of  that  disappoint 
ment  was.  He  was  not  able  even  to  speak  of  it. 
So  Philippa  was  asked  no  awkward  questions, 
and  her  self-knowledge  burned  deep  into  her 
heart. 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

In  the  next  few  days,  while  the  minister  was 
slowly  recovering  in  the  great  four-poster  in  Henry 
Roberts's  guest-room,  Philippa  listened  to  Han 
nah's  speculations  as  to  the  cause  of  his  attack, 
and  expressed  no  opinion.  She  was  dumb  when 
John  Fenn  tried  to  tell  her  how  grateful  he  was 
to  her  for  that  terrible  run  through  the  darkness 
for  his  sake. 

"You  should  not  be  grateful,"  she  said,  at  last, 
in  a  whisper. 

But  he  was  grateful;  and,  furthermore,  he 
was  very  happy  in  those  days  of  slow  recovery. 
The  fact  was  that  that  night,  when  he  had  been 
so  near  death,  he  had  heard  Philippa,  in  his  first 
dim  moments  of  returning  consciousness,  stam 
mering  out  those  distracted  words:  "Perhaps 
God  will  forgive  me."  To  John  Fenn  those  words 
meant  the  crowning  of  all  his  efforts :  she  had  re 
pented  ! 

"Truly,"  he  said,  lying  very  white  and  feeble 
on  his  pillow  and  looking  into  Philly's  face  when 
she  brought  him  his  gruel,  "truly, 

"He  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform!" 

The  "mysterious  way"  was  the  befalling  of  that 
terrible  illness  in  Henry  Roberts's  house,  so  that 
Philippa  should  be  impressed  by  it.  "If  my  af 
fliction  has  been  blessed  to  any  one  else,  I  am 
glad  to  have  suffered  it,"  he  said. 

Philippa  silently  put  a  spoonful  of  gruel  be- 

156 


THE    BLOW    OF    HER    REPLY    ALMOST    KNOCKED    HIM    BACK    IXTO 
HIS    MINISTERIAL    AFFECTATIONS 


THE    VOICE 

tween  his  lips;  he  swallowed  it  as  quickly  as  he 
could. 

"I  heard  you  call  upon  God  for  forgiveness; 
the  Lord  is  merciful  and  gracious!" 

Philly  said,  very  low,  "Yes;    oh  yes" 

So  John  Fenn  thanked  God,  and  took  his  gruel, 
and  thought  it  was  very  good.  He  thought,  also, 
that  Miss  Philippa  was  very  good  to  be  so  good 
to  him.  In  those  next  few  days,  before  he  was 
strong  enough  to  be  moved  back  to  his  own  house, 
he  thought  more  of  her  goodness  and  less  of  her 
salvation.  It  was  then  that  he  had  his  great 
moment,  his  revealing  moment!  All  of  a  sudden, 
at  the  touch  of  Life,  his  honest  artificiality  had 
dropped  from  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  had 
never  before  known  anything  worth  knowing! 
He  knew  he  was  in  love.  He  knew  it  when  he 
realized  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  troubled 
about  her  soul.  "That  is  what  she  meant!"  he 
thought;  "she  wanted  me  to  care  for  her,  before 
I  cared  for  her  soul."  He  was  so  simple  in  his  ac 
ceptance  of  the  revelation  that  she  loved  him, 
that  when  he  went  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  the 
blow  of  her  reply  almost  knocked  him  back  into 
his  ministerial  affectations: 

"No." 

When  John  Fenn  got  home  that  evening  he 
went  into  his  study  and  shut  the  door.  Mary 
came  and  pounded  on  it,  but  he  only  said,  in  a 
muffled  voice:  "No,  Mary.  Not  now.  Go 
away."  He  was  praying  for  resignation  to  what 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

he  told  himself  was  the  will  of  God.  "The  Lord 
is  unwilling  that  my  thoughts  should  be  diverted 
from  His  service  by  my  own  personal  happiness." 
Then  he  tried  to  put  his  thoughts  on  that  service 
by  deciding  upon  a  text  for  his  next  sermon. 
But  the  texts  which  suggested  themselves  were 
not  steadying  to  his  bewildered  mind: 

"Love  one  another."  ("I  certainly  thought  she 
loved  me.") 

"Marvel  not,  my  brethren,  if  the  world  hate  you" 
("I  am,  perhaps,  personally  unattractive  to  her; 
and  yet  I  wonder  why?") 

He  was  not  a  conceited  man;  but,  like  all  his 
sex,  he  really  did  "marvel"  a  little  at  the  lack  of 
feminine  appreciation. 

He  marveled  so  much  that  a  week  later  he  took 
Mary  and  walked  out  to  Mr.  Roberts's  house. 
This  time  Mary,  to  her  disgust,  was  left  with 
Miss  Philly's  father,  while  her  brother  and  Miss 
Philly  walked  in  the  frosted  garden.  Later,  when 
that  walk  was  over,  and  the  little  sister  trudged 
along  at  John  Perm's  side  in  the  direction  of 
Perryville,  she  was  very  fretful  because  he  would 
not  talk  to  her.  Again  he  was  occupied,  poor  boy ! 
in  trying  not  to  "marvel,"  and  to  be  submissive 
to  the  divine  will. 

After  that,  for  several  months,  he  refused  Mary's 
plea  to  be  taken  to  visit  Miss  Philly.  He  had,  he 
told  himself,  "submitted";  but  submission  left 
him  very  melancholy  and  solemn,  and  also  a 
little  resentful;  indeed,  he  was  so  low  in  his 

158 


THE    VOICE 

mind,  that  once  he  threw  out  a  bitter  hint  to  Dr. 
Lavendar, — who,  according  to  his  wont,  put  two 
and  two  together. 

"Men  in  our  profession,  sir,"  said  John  Fenn, 
"must  not  expect  personal  happiness." 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  meditatively,  "per 
haps  if  we  don't  expect  it,  the  surprise  of  getting 
it  makes  it  all  the  better.  I  expected  it;  but 
I've  exceeded  my  expectations!" 

"But  you  are  not  married,"  the  young  man 
said,  impulsively. 

Dr.  Lavendar's  face  changed;  "I  hope  you  will 
marry,  Fenn,"  he  said,  quietly.  At  which  John 
Fenn  said,  "I  am  married  to  my  profession; 
that  is  enough  for  any  minister." 

"You'll  find  your  profession  a  mighty  poor 
housekeeper,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  Mr.  Fenn  and  his 
big  roan  broke  through  the  snow-drifts  and  made 
their  way  to  Henry  Roberts's  house.  "I  must 
speak  to  you  alone,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  Irvingite, 
who,  seeing  him  approaching,  had  hastened  to 
open  the  door  for  him  and  draw  him  in  out  of  the 
cold  sunshine. 

What  the  caller  had  to  say  was  brief  and  to 
the  point:  Why  was  his  daughter  so  unkind? 
John  Fenn  did  not  feel  now  that  the  world — 
which  meant  Philippa — hated  him.  He  felt — 
he  could  not  help  feeling — that  she  did  not  even 
dislike  him;  "on  the  contrary.  ..."  So  what 
reason  had  she  for  refusing  him?  But  old  Mr. 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Roberts  shook  his  head.  "A  young  female  does 
not  have  'reasons,'"  he  said.  But  he  was  sorry 
for  the  youth,  and  he  roused  himself  from  his 
abstraction  long  enough  to  question  his  girl: 

"He  is  a  worthy  young  man,  my  Philippa. 
Why  do  you  dislike  him?" 

"I  do  not  dislike  him." 

"Then  why — ?"  her  father  protested. 

But  Philly  was  silent. 

Even  Hannah  came  to  the  rescue: 

"You'll  get  a  crooked  stick  at  the  end,  if  you 
don't  look  out!" 

Philly  laughed;  then  her  face  fell.  "I  sha'n't 
have  any  stick,  ever!" 

It  was  in  May  that  old  Hannah,  in  her  concern, 
confided  her  forebodings  about  the  stick  to  Dr. 
King. 

"I  wonder,"  William  said  to  himself,  uneasily, 
"if  I  was  wise  to  tell  that  child  to  hold  her  tongue? 
Perhaps  they  might  have  straightened  it  out  be 
tween  'em  before  this,  if  she  had  told  him  and 
been  done  with  it.  I've  a  great  mind  to  ask  Dr. 
Lavendar." 

He  did  ask  him;  at  first  with  proper  precau 
tions  not  to  betray  a  patient's  confidence,  but, 
at  a  word  from  Dr.  Lavendar,  tumbling  into  truth 
fulness. 

"You  are  talking  about  young  Philippa  Rob 
erts?"  Dr.  Lavendar  announced,  calmly,  when 
William  was  half-way  through  his  story  of  con 
cealed  identities. 

160 


THE    VOICE 

"How  did  you  guess  it?"  the  doctor  said,  as 
tonished;  "oh,  well,  yes,  I  am.  I  guess  there's 
no  harm  telling  you— 

"Not  the  slightest,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  "es 
pecially  as  I  knew  it  already  from  the  young  man 
— I  mean,  I  knew  she  wouldn't  have  him.  But 
I  didn't  know  why  until  your  story  dovetailed 
with  his.  William,  the  thing  has  festered  in  her! 
The  lancet  ought  to  have  been  used  the  next  day. 
I  believe  she'd  have  been  married  by  this  time 
if  she'd  spoken  out,  then  and  there." 

William  King  was  much  chagrined.  *  *  I  thought, 
being  a  girl,  you  know,  her  pride,  her  self-re 
spect—" 

"Oh  yes;  the  lancet  hurts,"  Dr.  Lavendar  ad 
mitted;  "but  it's  better  than — well,  I  don't  know 
the  terms  of  your  trade,  Willy — but  I  guess  you 
know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  guess  I  do,"  said  William  King,  thoughtfully. 
"Do  you  suppose  it's  too  late  now?" 

"It  will  be  more  of  an  operation,"  Dr.  Lavendar 
conceded. 

"Could  I  tell  him?"  William  said,  after  a  while. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said. 

"I  suppose  I'd  have  to  ask  her  permission?" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

That  talk  between  the  physician  of  the  soul 
and  the  physician  of  the  body  happened  on  the 
very  night  when  John  Fenn,  in  his  study  in  Perry- 
ville,  with  Mary  dozing  on  his  knee,  threw  over, 
once  and  for  all,  what  he  had  called  "submission" 

161 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

and  made  up  his  mind  to  get  his  girl!  The  very 
next  morning  he  girded  himself  and  walked  forth 
upon  the  Pike  toward  Henry  Roberts's  house. 
He  did  not  take  Mary  with  him — but  not  be 
cause  he  meant  to  urge  salvation  on  Miss  Philly! 
As  it  happened,  Dr.  King,  too,  set  out  upon  the 
Perryville  road  that  morning,  remarking  to  Jinny 
that  if  he  had  had  his  wits  about  him  that  night 
in  November,  she  would  have  been  saved  the  trip 
on  this  May  morning;  ''For  I've  got  to  go  all  the 
way  to  Perryville  and  make  a  clean  breast  to 
that  young  man,  Jane,"  he  told  her.  There  was 
no  urging  of  the  whip  on  Jinny's  flanks  on  this 
trip,  for  the  doctor  had  found  a  medical  pamphlet 
in  his  mail,  and  he  read  it  all  the  way,  letting  the 
reins  hang  from  the  crook  of  his  elbow.  It  was 
owing  to  this  method  of  driving  that  John  Fenn 
reached  the  Roberts  house  before  Jinny  passed  it, 
so  she  went  on  to  Perryville,  and  then  had  to 
turn  round  to  follow  on  his  track. 

"Brother  went  to  see  Miss  Philly,  and  he 
wouldn't  take  me,"  Mary  complained  to  William 
King,  when  he  drew  up  at  the  minister's  door; 
and  the  doctor  was  sympathetic  to  the  extent  of 
five  cents  for  candy  comfort. 

But  when  Jinny  reached  the  Roberts  gate  Dr. 
King  saw  John  Fenn  down  in  the  garden  with 
Philippa.  "Ho— ho!"  said  William;  "I  guess  I'll 
wait  and  see  if  he  works  out  his  own  salvation." 
He  hitched  Jinny,  and  went  in  to  find  Philippa's 
father,  and  to  him  he  freed  his  mind.  The  two 

162 


THE    VOICE 

men  sat  on  the  porch  and  looked  down  over  the 
tops  of  the  lilac-bushes  into  the  garden  where  they 
could  just  see  the  heads  of  the  two  young,  un 
happy  people. 

"It's  nonsense,  you  know,"  said  William  King, 
"that  Philly  doesn't  take  that  boy.  He's  head 
over  heels  in  love  with  her." 

"She  is  not  attached  to  him  in  any  such  man 
ner,"  Henry  Roberts  said;  "I  wonder  a  little  at 
it,  myself.  He  is  a  good  youth." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  wonderingly;  it  oc 
curred  to  him  that  if  he  had  a  daughter  he  would 
understand  her  better  than  Philly's  father  under 
stood  her.  "I  think  the  child  cares  for  him,"  he 
said ;  then,  hesitatingly,  he  referred  to  John  Fenn's 
sickness.  "I  suppose  you  know  about  it?"  he  said. 

Philly's  father  bent  his  head;  he  knew,  he 
thought,  only  too  well;  there  was  no  divine  reve 
lation  in  a  disordered  digestion! 

"Don't  you  think,"  William  King  said,  smiling, 
"you  might  try  to  make  her  feel  that  she  is  wrong 
not  to  accept  him,  now  that  the  charm  has  worked, 
so  to  speak?" 

"The  charm?"  the  old  man  repeated,  vaguely. 

"I  thought  you  understood,"  the  doctor  said, 
frowning;  then,  after  a  minute's  hesitation,  he 
told  him  the  facts. 

Henry  Roberts  stared  at  him,  shocked  and 
silent;  his  girl,  his  Philippa,  to  have  done  such  a 
thing!  "So  great  a  sin — my  little  Philly!"  he 
said,  faintly.  He  was  pale  with  distress. 

163 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

t  "My  dear  sir,"  Dr.  King  protested,  impatiently, 
"don't  talk  about  sin  in  connection  with  that 
child.  I  wish  I'd  held  my  tongue!" 

Henry  Roberts  was  silent.  Philippa's  share  in 
John  Fenn's  mysterious  illness  removed  it  still 
further  from  that  revelation,  waited  for  during 
all  these  years  with  such  passionate  patience. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  William  King's  reassur 
ances;  and  his  silence  was  so  silencing  that  by 
and  by  the  doctor  stopped  talking  and  looked 
down  into  the  garden  again.  He  observed  that 
those  two  heads  had  not  drawn  any  nearer  to 
gether.  It  was  not  John  Fenn's  fault.  .  .  . 

"There  can  be  no  good  reason,"  he  was  saying 
to  Philippa.  "If  it  is  a  bad  reason,  I  will  over 
come  it!  Tell  me  why?" 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  lips  and  trembled. 
"Come,"  he  said;  "it  is  my  due,  Philippa.     I 
will  know!" 

Philippa  shook  her  head.  He  took  her  other 
hand  and  stroked  it,  as  one  might  stroke  a  child's 
hand  to  comfort  and  encourage  it. 

"You  must  tell  me,  beloved,"  he  said. 
Philippa  looked  at  him  with  scared  eyes;  then, 
suddenly  pulling  her  hands  from  his  and  turning 
away,  she  covered  her  face  and  burst  into  uncon 
trollable  sobbing.  He,  confounded  and  fright 
ened,  followed  her  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

"Never  mind,  Philly,  never  mind!  if  you  don't 
want  to  tell  me — " 

"I  do  want  to  tell  you.     I  will  tell  you!    You 
164 


THE   VOICE 

will  despise  me.  But  I  will  tell  you.  I  did  a 
wicked  deed.  It  was  this  very  plant — here,  where 
we  stand,  monk's-hood!  It  was  poison.  I  didn't 
know — oh,  I  didn't  know.  The  book  said  monk's- 
hood — it  was  a  mistake.  But  I  did  a  wicked 
deed.  I  tried  to  kill  you — " 

She  swayed  as  she  spoke,  and  then  seemed  to 
sink  down  and  down,  until  she  lay,  a  forlorn  little 
heap,  at  his  feet.  For  one  dreadful  moment  he 
thought  she  had  lost  her  senses.  He  tried  to  lift 
her,  saying,  with  agitation: 

"Philly!     We  will  not  speak  of  it—" 

"I  murdered  you,"  she  whispered.  "I  put  the 
charm  into  your  tea,  to  make  you  .  .  .  love  me. 
You  didn't  die.  But  it  was  murder.  I  meant — 
I  meant  no  harm — " 

He  understood.  He  lifted  her  up  and  held 
her  in  his  arms.  Up  on  the  porch  William  King 
saw  that  the  two  heads  were  close  together! 

"Why!"  the  young  man  said.  "Why— but 
Philly!  You  loved  me!" 

"What  difference  does  that  make?"  she  said, 
heavily. 

"It  makes  much  difference  to  me,"  he  answered; 
he  put  his  hand  on  her  soft  hair  and  tried  to  press 
her  head  down  on  his  shoulder.  But  she  drew 
away. 

"No;  no." 

"But — "  he  began.     She  interrupted  him. 

"Listen,"  she  said;  and  then,  sometimes  in  a 
whisper,  sometimes  breaking  into  a  sob,  she  told 

165 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

him  the  story  of  that  November  night.    He  could 
hardly  hear  it  through. 

"Love,  you  loved  me!     You  will  marry  me." 

"No;  I  am  a  wicked  girl— a— a— an  immodest 
girl- 

"My  beloved,  you  meant  no  wrong — "  He 
paused,  seeing  that  she  was  not  listening. 

Her  father  and  the  doctor  were  coming  down 
the  garden  path;  William  King,  beaming  with 
satisfaction  at  the  proximity  of  those  two  heads, 
had  summoned  Henry  Roberts  to  "come  along 
and  give  'em  your  blessing!" 

But  as  he  reached  them,  standing  now  apart, 
the  doctor's  smile  faded — evidently  something 
had  happened.  John  Fenn,  tense  with  distress, 
called  to  him  with  frowning  command :  * '  Doctor ! 
Tell  her,  for  Heaven's  sake,  tell  her  that  it  was 
nothing — that  charm !  Tell  her  she  did  no  wrong. ' ' 

"No  one  can  do  that,"  Henry  Roberts  said; 
"it  was  a  sin." 

"Now,  look  here — "  Dr.  King  began. 

"It  was  a  sin  to  try  to  move  by  foolish  arts  the 
will  of  God." 

Philippa  turned  to  the  young  man,  standing 
quivering  beside  her.  "You  see?"  she  said. 

"No!    No,  I  don't  see — or  if  I  do,  never  mind." 

Just  for  a  moment  her  face  cleared.  (Yes, 
truly,  he  was  not  thinking  of  her  soul  now!)  But 
the  gleam  faded.  "Oh,  father,  I  am  a  great  sinner," 
she  whispered. 

"No,  you're  not!"  William  King  said. 
166 


THE   VOICE 

"Yes,  my  Philippa,  you  are,"  Henry  Roberts 
agreed,  solemnly. 

The  lover  made  a  despairing  gesture:  "Doctor 
King!  tell  her  'no!'  'no!'" 

"Yes,"  her  father  went  on,  "it  was  a  sin. 
Therefore,  Philippa,  sin  no  more.  Did  you  pray 
that  this  young  man's  love  might  be  given  to 
you?" 

Philippa  said,  in  a  whisper,  "Yes." 

"And  it  was  given  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Philippa,  was  it  the  foolish  weed  that  moved 
him  to  love?"  She  was  silent.  "My  child,  my 
Philly,  it  was  your  Saviour  who  moved  the  heart 
of  this  youth,  because  you  asked  Him.  Will 
you  do  such  despite  to  your  Lord  as  to  reject 
the  gift  He  has  given  in  answer  to  your  prayer?" 
Philippa,  with  parted  lips,  was  listening  intently: 
'The  gift  He  had  given!' 

Dr.  King  dared  not  speak.  John  Fenn  looked 
at  him,  and  then  at  Philippa,  and  trembled. 
Except  for  the  sound  of  a  bird  stirring  in  its  nest 
overhead  in  the  branches,  a  sunny  stillness  brooded 
over  the  garden.  Then,  suddenly,  the  stillness 
was  shattered  by  a  strange  sound — a  loud,  ca- 
denced  chant,  full  of  rhythmical  repetitions.  The 
three  who  heard  it  thrilled  from  head  to  foot; 
Henry  Roberts  did  not  seem  to  hear  it:  it  came 
from  his  own  lips. 

"Oh,  Philippa!  Oh,  Philippa!  I  do  require 
— I  do  require  that  you  accept  your  Saviour's 

167 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

gift.  Add  not  sin  to  sin.  Oh,  add  not  sin  to  sin 
by  making  prayer  of  no  avail!  Behold,  He  has 
set  before  thee  an  open  door.  Oh,  let  no  man 
shut  it.  Oh,  let  no  man  shut  it.  ..." 

The  last  word  fell  into  a  low,  wailing  note.  No 
one  spoke.  The  bird  rustled  in  the  leaves  above 
them;  a  butterfly  wavered  slowly  down  to  settle 
on  a  purple  flag  in  the  sunshine.  Philly's  eyes 
filled  with  blessed  tears.  She  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  her  father  and  smiled.  But  it  was  John 
Fenn  who  caught  those  slender,  trembling  arms 
against  his  breast;  and,  looking  over  at  the  old 
man,  he  said,  softly,  " 'The  Voice  of  God." 


.  .  .  "and  I,"  said  William  King,  telling  the 
story  that  night  to  Dr.  Lavendar — "I  just  wanted 
to  say  'the  voice  of  common  sense!'" 

"My  dear  William,"  said  the  old  man,  gently, 
"the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world  is  the 
knowledge  that  comes  to  you,  when  you  get  to 
be  as  old  as  I  am,  that  they  are  the  same  thing." 


AN    ENCORE 


AN  ENCORE 

ACCORDING  to  Old  Chester,  to  be  romantic 
**  was  just  one  shade  less  reprehensible  than 
to  put  on  airs.  Captain  Alfred  Price,  in  all  his 
seventy  years,  had  never  been  guilty  of  putting 
on  airs,  but  certainly  he  had  something  to  answer 
for  in  the  way  of  romance. 

However,  in  the  days  when  we  children  used 
to  see  him  pounding  up  the  street  from  the  post- 
office,  reading,  as  he  walked,  a  newspaper  held  at 
arm's-length  in  front  of  him,  he  was  far  enough 
from  romance.  He  was  seventy  years  old,  he 
weighed  over  two  hundred  pounds,  his  big  head 
was  covered  with  a  shock  of  grizzled  red  hair; 
his  pleasures  consisted  in  polishing  his  old  sex 
tant  and  playing  on  a  small  mouth-harmonicon. 
As  to  his  vices,  it  was  no  secret  that  he  kept  a 
fat  black  bottle  in  the  chimney  closet  in  his  own 
room,  and  occasionally  he  swore  strange  oaths 
about  his  grandmother's  nightcap.  "He  used  to 
blaspheme,"  his  daughter-in-law  said;  "but  I 
said,  'Not  in  my  presence,  if  you  please!'  So 
now  he  just  says  this  foolish  thing  about  a  night 
cap."  Mrs.  Drayton  said  that  this  reform  would 
12  J7i 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

be  one  of  the  jewels  in  Mrs.  Cyrus  Price's  crown; 
and  added  that  she  prayed  that  some  day  the 
Captain  would  give  up  tobacco  and  rum.  "I  am 
a  poor,  feeble  creature,"  said  Mrs.  Dray  ton;  "I 
cannot  do  much  for  my  fellow-men  in  active  mis 
sion-work, — but  I  give  my  prayers."  However, 
neither  Mrs.  Drayton's  prayers  nor  Mrs.  Cyrus's 
active  mission-work  had  done  more  than  mitigate 
the  blasphemy;  the  "rum"  (which  was  good 
Monongahela  whisky)  was  still  on  hand;  and  as 
for  tobacco,  except  when  sleeping,  eating,  playing 
on  his  harmonicon,  or  dozing  through  one  of  Dr. 
Lavendar's  sermons,  the  Captain  smoked  every 
moment,  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  or  cigar  falling  un 
heeded  on  a  vast  and  wrinkled  expanse  of  waist 
coat. 

No;  he  was  not  a  romantic  object.  But  we 
girls,  watching  him  stump  past  the  school-room 
window  to  the  post-office,  used  to  whisper  to 
one  another,  "Just  think!  he  eloped.11 

There  was  romance  for  you! 

To  be  sure,  the  elopement  had  not  quite  come 
off,  but  except  for  the  very  end,  it  was  all  as  per 
fect  as  a  story.  Indeed,  the  failure  at  the  end 
made  it  all  the  better:  angry  parents,  broken 
hearts — only,  the  worst  of  it  was,  the  hearts  did 
not  stay  broken !  He  went  and  married  somebody 
else;  and  so  did  she.  You  would  have  supposed 
she  would  have  died.  I  am  sure,  in  her  place, 
any  one  of  us  would  have  died.  And  yet,  as  Lydia 
Wright  said,  "How  could  a  young  lady  die  for 

172 


WHEN    ALFRED    PRICE    FELL    IN    LOVE    WITH    MISS    LETTY    MORRIS 


AN    ENCORE 

a  young  gentleman  with  ashes  all  over  his  waist 
coat?" 

But  when  Alfred  Price  fell  in  love  with  Miss 
Letty  Morris,  he  was  not  indifferent  to  his  waist 
coat,  nor  did  he  weigh  two  hundred  pounds.  He 
was  slender  and  ruddy-cheeked,  with  tossing  red- 
brown  curls.  If  he  swore,  it  was  not  by  his  grand 
mother  nor  her  nightcap;  if  he  drank,  it  was  hard 
cider  (which  can  often  accomplish  as  much  as 
"rum") ;  if  he  smoked  it  was  in  secret,  behind  the 
stable.  He  wore  a  stock,  and  (on  Sunday)  a 
ruffled  shirt;  a  high-waisted  coat  with  two  brass 
buttons  behind,  and  very  tight  pantaloons.  At 
that  time  he  attended  the  Seminary  for  Youths 
in  Upper  Chester.  Upper  Chester  was  then,  as 
in  our  time,  the  seat  of  learning  in  the  township, 
the  Female  Academy  being  there,  too.  Both  were 
boarding-schools,  but  the  young  people  came  home 
to  spend  Sunday;  and  their  weekly  returns,  all 
together  in  the  stage,  were  responsible  for  more 
than  one  Old  Chester  match.  .  .  . 

"The  air,"  says  Miss,  sniffing  genteelly  as  the 
coach  jolts  past  the  blossoming  May  orchards, 
"is  most  agreeably  perfumed.  And  how  fair  is 
the  prospect  from  this  hilltop!" 

"Fair  indeed!"  responds  her  companion,  staring 
boldly. 

Miss  bridles  and  bites  her  Hp. 

"I  was  not  observing  the  landscape,"  the  young 
gentleman  hastens  to  explain. 

In  those  days  (Miss  Letty  was  born  in  1804, 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

and  was  eighteen  when  she  and  the  ruddy  Alfred 
sat  on  the  back  seat  of  the  coach) — in  those  days 
the  conversation  of  Old  Chester  youth  was  more 
elegant  than  in  our  time.  We,  who  went  to  Miss 
Bailey's  school,  were  sad  degenerates  in  the  way 
of  manners  and  language;  at  least  so  our  elders 
told  us.  When  Lydia  Wright  said,  "Oh  my, 
what  an  awful  snow-storm!"  dear  Miss  Ellen  was 
displeased.  "Lydia,"  said  she,  "is  there  anything 
'awe '-inspiring  in  this  display  of  the  elements?" 

"No,  'm,"  faltered  poor  Lydia. 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Bailey,  gravely,  "your 
statement  that  the  storm  is  'awful'  is  a  falsehood. 
I  do  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  you  intentionally 
told  an  untruth;  it  was  an  exaggeration.  But 
an  exaggeration,  though  not  perhaps  a  falsehood, 
is  unladylike,  and  should  be  avoided  by  persons 
of  refinement."  Just  here  the  question  arises: 
what  would  Miss  Ellen  (now  in  heaven)  say  if 
she  could  hear  Lydia's  Lydia,  just  home  from 
college,  remark—  But  no:  Miss  Ellen's  pre 
cepts  shall  protect  these  pages. 

But  in  the  days  when  Letty  Morris  looked  out 
of  the  coach  window,  and  young  Alfred  murmured 
that  the  prospect  was  fair  indeed,  conversation 
was  perfectly  correct.  And  it  was  still  decorous 
even  when  it  got  beyond  the  coach  period  and 
reached  a  point  where  Old  Chester  began  to  take 
notice.  At  first  it  was  young  Old  Chester  which 
giggled.  Later  old  Old  Chester  made  some  com 
ments;  it  was  then  that  Alfred's  mother  mentioned 


AN    ENCORE 

the  matter  to  Alfred's  father.  ' '  He  is  young,  and, 
of  course,  foolish,"  Mrs.  Price  explained.  And 
Mr.  Price  said  that  though  folly  was  incidental 
to  Alfred's  years,  it  must  be  checked. 

"Just  check  it,"  said  Mr.  Price. 

Then  Miss  Letty's  mother  awoke  to  the  situ 
ation,  and  said,  "Fy,  fy,  Letitia!  let  me  hear  no 
more  of  this  foolishness." 

So  it  was  that  these  two  young  persons  were 
plunged  in  grief.  Oh,  glorious  grief  of  thwarted 
love!  When  they  met  now,  they  did  not  talk  of 
the  landscape.  Their  conversation,  though  no 
doubt  as  genteel  as  before,  was  all  of  broken 
hearts.  But  again  Letty's  mother  found  out, 
and  went  in  wrath  to  call  on  Alfred's  family. 
It  was  decided  between  them  that  the  young  man 
should  be  sent  away  from  home.  "To  save  him," 
says  the  father.  "To  protect  my  daughter," 
says  Mrs.  Morris. 

But  Alfred  and  Letty  had  something  to  say. 
...  It  was  in  December;  there  was  a  snow-storm 
— a  storm  which  Lydia  Wright  would  certainly 
have  called  "awful";  but  it  did  not  interfere 
with  true  love;  these  two  children  met  in  the 
graveyard — of  all  places! — to  swear  undying  con 
stancy.  Alfred's  lantern  came  twinkling  through 
the  flakes,  as  he  threaded  his  way  across  the 
hillside  among  the  tombstones,  and  found  Letty 
just  inside  the  entrance,  standing  with  her  black 
serving- woman  under  a  tulip-tree.  The  negress, 
chattering  with  cold  and  fright,  kept  plucking  at 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

the  girl's  pelisse  to  hurry  her;  but  once  Alfred 
was  at  her  side,  Letty  was  indifferent  to  storm 
and  ghosts.  As  for  Alfred,  he  was  too  cast  down 
to  think  of  them. 

"Letty,  they  will  part  us." 
'No,  my  dear  Alfred,  no!" 
"Yes.     Yes,  they  will.     Oh,  if  you  were  only 
mine!" 

Miss  Letty  sighed. 

"Will  you  be  true  to  me,  Letty?  I  am  to  go 
on  a  sailing-vessel  to  China,  to  be  gone  two  years. 
Will  you  wait  for  me?" 

Letty  gave  a  little  cry;  two  years!  Her  black 
woman  twitched  her  sleeve. 

"Miss  Let,  it's  gittin'  cole,  honey." 
1 '  (Don't,  Flora.)— Alfred,  two  years!    Oh,  Alfred, 
that  is  an  eternity.     Why,  I  should  be — I  should 
be  twenty!" 

The  lantern,  set  on  a  tombstone  beside  them, 
blinked  in  a  snowy  gust.  Alfred  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands — he  was  shaken  to  his  soul;  the 
little,  gay  creature  beside  him  thrilled  at  a  sound 
from  behind  those  hands. 

"Alfred—  "  she  said,  faintly;  then  she  hid  her 
face  against  his  arm;  "my  dear  Alfred,  I  will,  if 
you  desire  it — fly  with  you!" 

Alfred,  with  a  gasp,  lifted  his  head  and  stared 
at  her.  His  slower  mind  had  seen  nothing  but 
separation  and  despair;  but  the  moment  the  word 
was  said  he  was  aflame.  What!  Would  she? 
Could  she?  Adorable  creature! 

176 


AN    ENCORE 

"Miss  Let,  my  feet  done  git  cole — " 

"(Flora,  be  still!)— Yes,  Alfred,  yes.  I  am 
thine." 

The  bov  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "But  I  am  to 
be  sent  away  on  Monday!  My  angel,  could  you 
— fly,  to-morrow?" 

And  Letty,  her  face  still  hidden  against  his 
shoulder,  nodded. 

Then,  while  the  shivering  Flora  stamped,  and 
beat  her  arms,  and  the  lantern  flared  and  sizzled 
under  the  snowflakes,  Alfred  made  their  plans, 
which  were  simple  to  the  point  of  childishness. 
"My  own!"  he  said,  when  it  was  all  arranged; 
then  he  held  the  lantern  up  and  looked  into  her 
face,  blushing  and  determined,  with  snow  gleam 
ing  on  the  curls  that  pushed  out  from  under  her 
big  hood.  "You  will  meet  me  at  the  minister's?" 
he  said,  passionately.  "You  will  not  fail  me?" 

"I  will  not  fail  you!"  she  said;  and  laughed 
joyously;  but  the  young  man's  face  was  white. 

She  kept  her  word;  and  with  the  assistance  of 
Flora,  romantic  again  when  her  feet  were  warm, 
all  went  as  they  planned.  Clothes  were  packed, 
savings-banks  opened,  and  a  chaise  abstracted 
from  the  Price  stable. 

"It  is  my  intention,"  said  the  youth,  "to  return 
to  my  father  the  value  of  the  vehicle  and  nag, 
as  soon  as  I  can  secure  a  position  which  will  en 
able  me  to  support  my  Letty  in  comfort  and 
fashion." 

On  the  night  of  the  elopement  the  two  children 
177 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

met  at  the  minister's  house.  (Yes,  the  very  old 
Rectory  to  which  we  Old  Chester  children  went 
every  Saturday  afternoon  to  Dr.  Lavendar's 
Collect  class.  But  of  course  there  was  no  Dr. 
Lavendar  there  in  those  days). 

Well;  Alfred  requested  this  minister  to  pro 
nounce  them  man  and  wife;  but  he  coughed  and 
poked  the  fire.  "I  am  of  age,"  Alfred  insisted; 
"I  am  twenty-two."  Then  Mr.  Smith  said  he  must 
first  go  and  put  on  his  bands  and  surplice;  and 
Alfred  said,  "If  you  please,  sir."  And  off  went 
Mr.  Smith — and  sent  a  note  to  Alfred's  father  and 
Letty' s  mother! 

We  girls  used  to  wonder  what  the  lovers  talked 
about  while  they  waited  for  the  return  of  the  sur- 
pliced  traitor.  Ellen  Dale  always  said  they  were 
foolish  to  wait.  "Why  didn't  they  go  right  off?" 
said  Ellen.  "If  I  were  going  to  elope,  I  shouldn't 
bother  to  get  married.  But,  oh,  think  how  they 
felt  when  in  walked  those  cruel  parents!" 

The  story  was  that  they  were  torn  weeping 
from  each  other's  arms;  that  Letty  was  sent  to 
bed  for  two  days  on  bread  and  water;  that  Alfred 
was  packed  off  to  Philadelphia  the  very  next 
morning,  and  sailed  in  less  than  a  week.  They 
did  not  see  each  other  again. 

But  the  end  of  the  story  was  not  romantic  at 
all.  Letty,  although  she  crept  about  for  a  while 
in  deep  disgrace,  and  brooded  upon  death— that  in 
teresting  impossibility,  so  dear  to  youth — married, 
if  you  please!  when  she  was  twenty,  somebody 

178 


AN    ENCORE 

called  North, — and  went  away  to  live.  When 
Alfred  came  back,  seven  years  later,  he  got  mar 
ried,  too.  He  married  a  Miss  Barkley.  He  used 
to  go  away  on  long  voyages,  so  perhaps  he  wasn't 
really  fond  of  her.  We  hoped  he  wasn't,  for  we 
liked  Captain  Price. 

In  our  day  Captain  Price  was  a  widower.  He 
had  given  up  the  sea,  and  settled  down  to  live 
in  Old  Chester;  his  son,  Cyrus,  lived  with  him, 
and  his  languid  daughter-in-law — a  young  lady 
of  dominant  feebleness,  who  ruled  the  two  men 
with  that  most  powerful  domestic  rod,  foolish 
weakness.  This  combination  in  a  woman  will 
cause  a  mountain  (a  masculine  mountain)  to  fly 
from  its  firm  base;  while  kindness,  justice,  and 
good  sense,  leave  it  upon  unshaken  foundations 
of  selfishness.  Mrs.  Cyrus  was  a  Goliath  of  silli 
ness;  when  billowing  black  clouds  heaped  them 
selves  in  the  west  on  a  hot  afternoon,  she  turned 
pale  with  apprehension,  and  the  Captain  and 
Cyrus  ran  for  four  tumblers,  into  which  they  put 
the  legs  of  her  bed,  where,  cowering  among  the 
feathers,  she  lay  cold  with  fear  and  perspiration. 
Every  night  the  Captain  screwed  down  all  the 
windows  on  the  lower  floor;  in  the  morning  Cyrus 
pulled  the  screws  out.  Cyrus  had  a  pretty  taste 
in  horseflesh,  but  Gussie  cried  so  when  he  once 
bought  a  trotter  that  he  had  long  ago  resigned 
himself  to  a  friendly  beast  of  twenty-seven  years, 
who  could  not  go  much  out  of  a  walk  because  he 
had  string-halt  in  both  hind  legs. 

179 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

But  one  must  not  be  too  hard  on  Mrs.  Cyrus. 
In  the  first  place,  she  was  not  born  in  Old  Chester, 
—which  was  against  her,  to  begin  with.  But', 
added  to  that,  just  think  of  her  name!  The  effect 
of  names  upon  character  is  not  considered  as  it 
should  be.  If  one  is  called  Gussie  for  thirty 
years,  it  is  almost  impossible  not  to  become 
gussie  after  a  while.  Mrs.  Cyrus  could  not  be 
Augusta;  few  women  can;  but  it  was  easy  to  be 
gussie — irresponsible,  silly,  selfish.  She  had  a 
vague,  flat  laugh,  she  ate  a  great  deal  of  candy, 
and  she  was  afraid  of—  But  one  cannot  cata 
logue  Mrs.  Cyrus's  fears.  They  were  as  the  sands 
of  the  sea  for  number.  And  these  two  men  were 
governed  by  them.  Only  when  the  secrets  of  all 
hearts  shall  be  revealed  will  it  be  understood  why 
a  man  loves  a  fool;  but  why  he  obeys  her  is  ob 
vious  enough:  Fear  is  the  greatest  power  in  the 
world;  Gussie  was  afraid  of  thunder-storms,  or 
what  not;  but  the  Captain  and  Cyrus  were 
afraid  of  Gussie!  A  hint  of  tears  in  her  pale  eyes, 
and  her  husband  would  sigh  with  anxiety  and 
Captain  Price  slip  his  pipe  into  his  pocket  and 
sneak  out  of  the  room.  Doubtless  Cyrus  would 
often  have  been  glad  to  follow  him,  but  the  old 
gentleman  glared  when  his  son  showed  a  desire 
for  his  company. 

"Want  to  come  and  smoke  with  me?  'Your 
granny  was  Murray!' — you're  sojering.  You're 
first  mate;  you  belong  on  the  bridge  in  storms. 
I'm  before  the  mast.  Tend  to  your  business!" 

1 80 


AN    ENCORE 

It  was  forty-eight  years  before  Letty  and  Alfred 
saw  each  other  again — or  at  least  before  persons 
calling  themselves  by  those  old  names  saw  each 
other.  Were  they  Letty  and  Alfred — this  tousled, 
tangled,  good-humored  old  man,  ruddy  and  cowed, 
and  this  small,  bright-eyed  old  lady,  Mrs.  North, 
led  about  by  a  devoted  daughter?  Certainly 
these  two  persons  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  boy 
and  girl  torn  from  each  other's  arms  that  cold 
December  night.  Alfred  had  been  mild  and  slow; 
Captain  Price  (except  when  his  daughter-in-law 
raised  her  finger)  was  a  pleasant  old  roaring  lion. 
Letty  had  been  a  gay,  high-spirited  little  crea 
ture,  not  as  retiring,  perhaps,  as  a  young  female 
should  be,  and  certainly  self-willed;  Mrs.  North 
was  completely  under  the  thumb  of  her  daughter 
Mary.  Not  that  "under  the  thumb"  means  un- 
happiness ;  Mary  North  desired  only  her  mother's 
welfare,  and  lived  fiercely  for  that  single  pur 
pose. 

From  morning  until  night  (and,  indeed,  until 
morning  again,  for  often  she  rose  from  her  bed 
to  see  that  there  was  no  draught  from  the  crack 
of  the  open  window),  all  through  the  twenty- 
four  hours  she  was  on  duty. 

When  this  excellent  daughter  appeared  in  Old 
Chester  and  said  she  was  going  to  hire  a  house, 
and  bring  her  mother  back  to  end  her  days  in 
the  home  of  her  girlhood,  Old  Chester  displayed 
a  friendly  interest ;  when  she  decided  upon  a  house 
on  Main  Street,  directly  opposite  Captain  Price's, 

181 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

it  began  to  recall  the  romance  of  that  thwarted 
elopement. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  knows  that  story  about 
old  Alfred  Price  and  her  mother?"  said  Old  Ches 
ter;  and  it  looked  sidewise  at  Miss  North  with 
polite  curiosity.  This  was  not  altogether  be 
cause  of  her  mother's  romantic  past,  but  because 
of  her  own  manners  and  clothes.  With  painful 
exactness,  Miss  North  endeavored  to  follow  the 
fashion;  but  she  looked  as  if  articles  of  clothing 
had  been  thrown  at  her  and  some  had  stuck. 
As  to  her  manners,  Old  Chester  was  divided; 
Mrs.  David  Baily  said,  with  delicate  disgust, 
that  they  were  bad;  but  Mrs.  Barkley  said  that 
the  trouble  was  she  hadn't  any  manners;  and 
as  for  Dr.  Lavendar,  he  insisted  that  she  was  just 
shy.  But,  as  Mrs.  Dray  ton  said,  that  was  like 
Dr.  Lavendar,  always  making  excuses  for  wrong 
doing!  "Which,"  said  Mrs.  Drayton,  "is  a  strange 
thing  for  a  minister  to  do.  For  my  part,  I  can 
not  understand  impoliteness  in  a  Christian  female. 
But  we  must  not  judge,"  Mrs.  Drayton  ended, 
with  what  Willy  King  called  her  "holy  look." 
Without  wishing  to  "judge,"  it  may  be  said  that, 
in  the  matter  of  manners,  Miss  Mary  North, 
palpitatingly  anxious  to  be  polite,  told  the  truth; 
and  as  everybody  knows,  truthfulness  and  agree 
able  manners  are  often  divorced  on  the  ground 
of  incompatibility.  Miss  North  said  things  that 
other  people  only  thought.  When  Mrs.  Willy 
King  remarked  that,  though  she  did  not  pretend 

182 


AN   ENCORE 

to  be  a  good  housekeeper,  she  had  the  backs  of 
her  pictures  dusted  every  other  day,  Miss  North, 
her  chin  trembling  with  timidity,  said,  with  a 
panting  smile: 

"That's  not  good  housekeeping;  it's  foolish 
waste  of  time."  And  when  Neddy  Dilworth's 
wife  confessed,  coquettishly,  that  one  would 
hardly  take  her  to  be  a  year  or  two  older  than  her 
husband,  would  one?  Mary  North  exclaimed,  in 
utter  astonishment:  "Is  that  all?  Why,  you 
look  twelve  years  older!"  Of  course  such  truth 
fulness  was  far  from  genteel, — though  Old  Chester 
was  not  as  displeased  as  you  might  have  supposed. 

While  Miss  North,  timorous  and  sincere  (and 
determined  to  be  polite),  was  putting  the  house 
in  order  before  sending  for  her  mother,  Old  Ches 
ter  invited  her  to  tea,  and  asked  her  many  ques 
tions  about  Letty  and  the  late  Mr.  North.  But 
nobody  asked  whether  she  knew  that  her  opposite 
neighbor,  Captain  Price,  might  have  been  her 
father — at  least  that  was  the  way  Miss  Ellen's 
girls  expressed  it.  Captain  Price  himself  did  not 
enlighten  the  daughter  he  did  not  have;  but  he 
went  rolling  across  the  street,  and  pulling  off  his 
big  shabby  felt  hat,  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps, 
and  roared  out:  "Morning!  Anything  I  can  do 
for  you?"  Miss  North,  indoors,  hanging  window- 
curtains,  her  mouth  full  of  tacks,  shook  her  head. 
Then  she  removed  the  tacks  and  came  to  the  front 
door. 

"Do  you  smoke,  sir?" 
183 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Captain  Price  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  looked  at  it.  "Why!  I  believe  I  do,  some 
times,"  he  said. 

"I  inquired,"  said  Miss  North,  smiling  tremu 
lously,  her  hands  gripped  hard  together,  "be 
cause,  if  you  do,  I  will  ask  you  to  desist  when 
passing  our  windows." 

Captain  Price  was  so  dumfounded  that  for  a 
moment  words  failed  him.  Then  he  said,  meekly, 
"Does  your  mother  object  to  tobacco  smoke, 
ma'am?" 

"It  is  injurious  to  all  ladies'  throats,"  Miss 
North  explained,  her  voice  quivering  and  de 
termined. 

"Does  your  mother  resemble  you,  madam?" 
•said  Captain  Price,  slowly. 

"Oh  no!  my  mother  is  pretty.  She  has  my 
eyes,  but  that's  all." 

"I  didn't  mean  in  looks,"  said  the  old  man; 
"she  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  you;  not  in 
the  least !  She  was  a  very  pretty  girl.  I  mean  in 
her  views?" 

"Her  views?  I  don't  think  my  mother  has 
any  particular  views,"  Miss  North  answered, 
hesitatingly;  "I  spare  her  all  thought,"  she  ended, 
and  her  thin  face  bloomed  suddenly  with  love. 

Old  Chester  rocked  with  the  Captain's  report 
of  his  call;  and  Mrs.  Cyrus  told  her  husband 
that  she  only  wished  this  lady  would  stop  his 
father's  smoking  altogether. 

"Just  look  at  his  ashes,"  said  Gussie;  "I  put 
184 


AN    ENCORE 

saucers  round  everywhere  to  catch  'em,  but  he 
shakes  'em  off  anywhere — right  on  the  carpet! 
And  if  you  say  anything,  he  just  says,  *  Oh,  they'll 
keep  the  moths  away!'  I  worry  so  for  fear  he'll 
set  the  house  on  fire." 

Mrs.  Cyrus  was  so  moved  by  Miss  North's 
active  mission-work  that  the  very  next  day  she 
wandered  across  the  street  to  call.  "I  hope  I'm 
not  interrupting  you,"  she  began,  "but  I  thought 
I'd  just- 

"Yes;  you  are,"  said  Miss  North;  "but  never 
mind;  stay  if  you  want  to."  She  tried  to  smile, 
but  she  looked  at  the  duster  which  she  had  put 
down  upon  Mrs.  Cyrus's  entrance. 

Gussie  wavered  as  to  whether  to  take  offense, 
but  decided  not  to — at  least  not  until  she  could 
make  the  remark  which  was  buzzing  in  her  small 
mind.  It  seemed  strange,  she  said,  that  Mrs. 
North  should  come,  not  only  to  Old  Chester,  but 
right  across  the  street  from  Captain  Price! 

"Why?"  said  Mary  North,  briefly. 

" Why?"  said  Mrs.  Cyrus,  with  faint  animation. 
"Gracious!  is  it  possible  that  you  don't  know 
about  your  mother  and  my  father-in-law?" 

"What  about  them?" 

"Why,  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Cyrus,  with  her 
light  cackle,  "your  mother  was  a  little  romantic 
when  she  was  young.  No  doubt  she  has  con 
quered  it  by  this  time.  But  she  tried  to  make 
my  father-in-law  elope  with  her." 

"What!" 

185 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Oh,  bygones  should  be  bygones,"  Mrs.  Cyrus 
said,  soothingly;  "forgive  and  forget,  you  know. 
I  have  no  doubt  she  is  perfectly — well,  perfectly 
correct,  now.  If  there's  anything  I  can  do  to 
assist  you,  ma'am,  I'll  send  my  husband  over"; 
and  then  she  lounged  away,  leaving  poor  Mary 
North  silent  with  indignation.  But  that  night 
at  tea  Gussie  said  that  she  thought  strong-minded 
ladies  were  very  unladylike;  "they  say  she's 
strong-minded,"  she  added,  languidly. 

"Lady!"  said  the  Captain.  "She's  a  man-o'- 
war's-man  in  petticoats." 

Gussie  giggled. 

"She's  as  flat  as  a  lath,"  the  Captain  declared; 
"if  it  hadn't  been  for  her  face,  I  wouldn't  have 
known  whether  she  was  coming  bow  or  stern  on." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Cyrus,  "that  that  woman 
has  some  motive  in  bringing  her  mother  back 
here;  and  right  across  the  street,  too!" 

"What  motive?"  said  Cyrus,  mildly  curious. 

But  Augusta  waited  for  conjugal  privacy  to 
explain  herself:  "Cyrus,  I  worry  so,  because  I'm 
sure  that  woman  thinks  she  can  catch  your  father 
again.  Oh,  just  listen  to  that  harmonicon  down 
stairs!  It  sets  my  teeth  on  edge!" 

Then  Cyrus,  the  silent,  servile  first  mate,  broke 
out :  ' '  Gussie,  you're  a  fool !" 

And  Augusta  cried  all  night,  and  showed  her 
self  at  the  breakfast-table  lantern-jawed  and 
sunken-eyed;  and  her  father-in-law  judged  it 
wise  to  sprinkle  his  cigar  ashes  behind  the  stable. 

1 86 


AN    ENCORE 

The  day  that  Mrs.  North  arrived  in  Old  Chester, 
Mrs.  Cyrus  commanded  the  situation;  she  saw 
the  daughter  get  out  of  the  stage,  and  hurry  into 
the  house  for  a  chair  so  that  the  mother  might 
descend  more  easily.  She  also  saw  a  little,  white- 
haired  old  lady  take  that  opportunity  to  leap 
nimbly,  and  quite  unaided,  from  the  swinging 
step  of  the  coach. 

"Now,  mother!"  expostulated  Mary  North, 
returning,  chair  in  hand,  and  breathless,  "you 
might  have  broken  your  limb!  Here,  take  my 
arm." 

Meekly,  after  her  moment  of  freedom,  the 
little  lady  put  her  hand  on  that  gaunt  arm,  and 
tripped  up  the  path  and  into  the  house,  where, 
alas!  Augusta  Price  lost  sight  of  them.  Yet  even 
she,  with  all  her  disapproval  of  strong-minded 
ladies,  must  have  admired  the  tenderness  of  the 
man-o'-war's-man.  Miss  North  put  her  mother 
into  a  big  chair,  and  hurried  to  bring  a  dish  of 
curds. 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  protested  Mrs.  North. 

"Never  mind.     It  will  do  you  good." 

With  a  sigh  the  little  old  lady  ate  the  curds, 
looking  about  her  with  curious  eyes.  "Why, 
we're  right  across  the  street  from  the  old  Price 
house!"  she  said. 

"Did  you  know  them,  mother?"  demanded 
Miss  North. 

"Dear  me,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  North,  twinkling. 
"Why,  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it,  but  the  eldest 

13  187 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

boy —  Now,  what  was  his  name?  Al — something. 
Alfred — Albert;  no,  Alfred.  He  was  a  beau  of 
mine." 

"Mother!  I  don't  think  it's  refined  to  use 
such  a  word." 

"Well,  he  wanted  me  to  elope  with  him,"  Mrs. 
North  said,  gayly;  "if  that  isn't  being  a  beau,  I 
don't  know  what  is.  I  haven't  thought  of  it  for 
years." 

"If  you've  finished  your  curds  you  must  lie 
down,"  said  Miss  North. 

"Oh,  I'll  just  look  about—" 

"No;   you  are  tired.    You  must  lie  down." 

"Who  is  that  stout  old  gentleman  going  into 
the  Price  house?"  Mrs.  North  said,  lingering  at 
the  window. 

"Oh,  that's  your  Alfred  Price,"  her  daughter 
answered;  and  added,  that  she  hoped  her  mother 
would  be  pleased  with  the  house.  "We  have 
boarded  so  long,  I  think  you'll  enjoy  a  home  of 
your  own." 

"Indeed  I  shall!"  cried  Mrs.  North,  her  eyes 
snapping  with  delight.  "Mary,  I'll  wash  the 
breakfast  dishes,  as  my  mother  used  to  do!" 

"Oh  no,"  Mary  North  protested;  "it  would 
tire  you.  I  mean  to  take  every  care  from  your 
mind." 

"But,"  Mrs.  North  pleaded,  "you  have  so  much 
to  do;  and — " 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  said  the  daughter, 
earnestly;  "you  are  my  first  consideration." 

188 


AN    ENCORE 

"I  know  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  North,  meekly. 
And  when  Old  Chester  came  to  make  its  call, 
one  of  the  first  things  she  said  was  that  her  Mary 
was  such  a  good  daughter.  Miss  North,  her 
anxious  face  red  with  determination,  bore  out 
the  assertion  by  constantly  interrupting  the  con 
versation  to  bring  a  footstool,  or  shut  a  window, 
or  put  a  shawl  over  her  mother's  knees.  "My 
mother's  limb  troubles  her,"  she  explained  to 
visitors  (in  point  of  modesty,  Mary  North  did 
not  leave  her  mother  a  leg  to  stand  on) ;  then  she 
added,  breathlessly,  with  her  tremulous  smile, 
that  she  wished  they  would  please  not  talk  too 
much.  "Conversation  tires  her,"  she  explained. 
At  which  the  pretty  old  lady  opened  and  closed 
her  hands,  and  protested  that  she  was  not  tired 
at  all.  But  the  callers  departed.  As  the  door 
closed  behind  them,  Mrs.  North  was  ready  to  cry. 

"Now,  Mary,  really!"  she  began. 

"Mother,  I  don't  care!  I  don't  like  to  say  a 
thing  like  that,  though  I'm  sure  I  always  try  to 
speak  politely.  But  it's  the  truth,  and  to  save 
you  I  would  tell  the  truth  no  matter  how  painful 
it  was  to  do  so." 

"But  I  enjoy  seeing  people,  and— 

"It  is  bad  for  you  to  be  tired,"  Mary  said,  her 
thin  face  quivering  still  with  the  effort  she  had 
made;  "and  they  sha'n't  tire  you  while  I  am  here 
to  protect  you."  Her  protection  never  flagged. 
When  Captain  Price  called,  she  asked  him  to 
please  converse  in  a  low  tone,  as  noise  was  bad 

189 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

for  her  mother.  ''He  had  been  here  a  good  while 
before  I  came  in,"  she  defended  herself  to  Mrs. 
North,  afterwards;  "and  I'm  sure  I  spoke  polite 
ly." 

The  fact  was,  the  day  the  Captain  came,  Miss 
North  was  out.  Her  mother  had  seen  him  pound 
ing  up  the  street,  and  hurrying  to  the  door,  called 
out,  gayly,  in  her  sweet  old,  piping  voice,  "Al 
fred—Alfred  Price!" 

The  Captain  turned  and  looked  at  her.  There 
was  just  one  moment's  pause;  perhaps  he  tried 
to  bridge  the  years,  and  to  believe  that  it  was 
Letty  who  spoke  to  him — Letty,  whom  he  had 
last  seen  that  wintry  night,  pale  and  weeping, 
in  the  slender  green  sheath  of  a  fur-trimmed 
pelisse.  If  so,  he  gave  it  up;  this  plump,  white- 
haired,  bright-eyed  old  lady,  in  a  wide-spreading, 
rustling  black  silk  dress,  was  not  Letty.  She 
was  Mrs.  North. 

The  Captain  came  across  the  street,  waving  his 
newspaper,  and  saying,  "So  you've  cast  anchor 
in  the  old  port,  ma'am?" 

"My  daughter  is  not  at  home;  do  come  in," 
she  said,  smiling  and  nodding.  Captain  Price 
hesitated;  then  he  put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  and 
followed  her  into  the  parlor.  "Sit  down,"  she 
cried,  gayly.  "Well,  Alfred!" 

"Well— Mrs.  North!"  he  said;  then  they  both 
laughed,  and  she  began  to  ask  questions:  Who 
was  dead?  Who  had  so  and  so  married?  "There 
are  not  many  of  us  left,"  she  said.  "The  two 

190 


AN    ENCORE 

Ferris  girls  and  Theophilus  Morrison  and  Johnny 
Gordon — he  came  to  see  me  yesterday.  And 
Matty  Dilworth;  she  was  younger  than  I — oh, 
by  ten  years.  She  married  a  Wharton,  didn't 
she?  I  hear  he  didn't  turn  out  well.  You  mar 
ried  a  Barkley  girl,  didn't  you?  Was  it  the  old 
est  girl  or  the  second  sister?" 

' 'It  was  the  second — Jane.  Yes,  poor  Jane. 
I  lost  her  in  'forty-five." 

"You  have  children?"  she  said,  sympathetically. 

"I've  got  a  boy,"  he  said;  "but  he's  married." 

1 '  My  girl  has  never  married ;  she's  a  good  daugh 
ter," — Mrs.  North  broke  off  with  a  nervous  laugh; 
"here  she  is,  now!" 

Mary  North,  who  had  suddenly  appeared  in 
the  doorway,  gave  a  questioning  sniff,  and  the 
Captain's  hand  sought  his  guilty  pocket,  where 
that  pipe  was  lurking;  but  Miss  North  only  said: 
"How  do  you  do,  sir?  Now,  mother,  don't  talk 
too  much  and  get  tired."  She  stopped  and  tried 
to  smile,  but  the  painful  color  came  into  her  face. 
"And — if  you  please,  Captain  Price,  will  you 
speak  in  a  low  tone?  Large,  noisy  persons  ex 
haust  the  oxygen  in  the  air,  and— 

"Mary!"  cried  poor  Mrs.  North;  but  the  Cap 
tain,  clutching  his  old  felt  hat,  began  to  hoist 
himself  up  from  the  sofa,  scattering  ashes  about 
as  he  did  so.  Mary  North,  looking  at  them,  com 
pressed  her  lips. 

"I  tell  my  daughter-in-law  they'll  keep  the 
moths  away,"  the  old  gentleman  said,  sheepishly. 

191 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"I  use  camphor,"  said  Miss  North.  "Flora 
must  bring  a  dust-pan." 

"Flora?"  Alfred  Price  said.  "Now,  what's  my 
association  with  that  name?" 

"She  was  our  old  cook,"  Mrs.  North  explained; 
"this  Flora  is  her  daughter.  But  you  never  saw 
old  Flora?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  did,"  the  old  man  said,  slowly; 
his  eyes  narrowed  a  little,  and  he  smiled.  "Yes. 
I  remember  Flora.  Well,  good-by, — Mrs.  North." 

"Good-by,  Alfred.  Come  again,"  she  said, 
cheerfully. 

1 '  Mother,  here's  your  beef  tea,"  said  a  brief  voice. 

Alfred  Price  fled.  He  met  his  son  just  as  he 
was  entering  his  own  house,  and  burst  into  a  con 
fidence:  "Cy,  my  boy,  come  aft  and  splice  the 
main-brace.  Cyrus,  what  a  female!  She  knocked 
me  higher  than  Gilroy's  kite.  And  her  mother 
was  as  sweet  a  girl  as  you  ever  saw!"  He  drew 
his  son  into  a  little,  low-browed,  dingy  room  at 
the  end  of  the  hall.  Its  grimy  untidiness  matched 
the  old  Captain's  clothes,  but  it  was  his  one  spot 
of  refuge  in  his  own  house;  here  he  could  scatter 
his  tobacco  ashes  almost  unrebuked,  and  play 
on  his  harmonicon  without  seeing  Gussie  wince 
and  draw  in  her  breath;  for  Mrs.  Cyrus  rarely 
entered  the  "cabin."  "I  worry  so  about  its  dis- 
orderliness  that  I  won't  go  in,"  she  used  to  say, 
in  a  resigned  way.  The  Captain  accepted  her 
decision  with  resignation  of  his  own.  "Crafts 
of  your  bottom  can't  navigate  in  these  waters," 

192 


AN    ENCORE 

he  agreed,  earnestly;  and,  indeed,  the  room  was 
so  cluttered  with  his  belongings  that  voluminous 
hoop-skirts  could  not  get  steerageway.  "He  has 
so  much  rubbish,"  Gussie  complained;  but  it  was 
precious  rubbish  to  the  old  man.  His  sea-chest 
was  behind  the  door;  a  blow-fish,  stuffed  and  var 
nished,  hung  from  the  ceiling;  two  colored  prints 
of  the  "Barque  Letty  M.,  800  tons,"  decorated 
the  walls;  his  sextant,  polished  daily  by  his  big, 
clumsy  hands,  hung  over  the  mantelpiece,  on 
which  were  many  dusty  treasures — the  mahogany 
spoke  of  an  old  steering-wheel;  a  whale's  tooth; 
two  Chinese  wrestlers,  in  ivory;  a  fan  of  spread 
ing  white  coral;  a  conch-shell,  its  beautiful  red 
lip  serving  to  hold  a  loose  bunch  of  cigars.  In 
the  chimney-breast  was  a  little  door,  and  the 
Captain,  pulling  his  son  into  the  room  after  that 
call  upon  Mrs.  North,  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for 
the  key.  "Here,"  he  said;  "(as  the  Governor  of 
North  Carolina  said  to  the  Governor  of  South 
Carolina) — Cyrus,  she  handed  round  beef  tea!" 

But  Cyrus  was  to  receive  still  further  enlighten 
ment  on  the  subject  of  his  opposite  neighbor: 

"She  called  him  in.  I  heard  her,  with  my  own 
ears!  'Alfred,'  she  said,  'come  in.'  Cyrus,  mark 
my  words:  she  has  designs;  oh,  I  worry  so  about 
it!  He  ought  to  be  protected.  He  is  very  old, 
and,  of  course,  foolish.  You  ought  to  check  it 
at  once." 

"Gussie,  I  don't  like  you  to  talk  that  way  about 
my  father,"  Cyrus  began. 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"You'll  like  it  less  later  on.    Hell  go  and  see 
her  to-morrow." 

"Why  shouldn't  he  go  and  see  her  to-morrow?" 
Cyrus  said,  and  added  a  modest  bad  word;  which 
made  Gussie  cry.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  what  his 
wife  called  his  "blasphemy,"  Cyrus  began  to  be 
vaguely  uncomfortable  whenever  he  saw  his  father 
put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  and  go  across  the  street. 
And  as  the  winter  brightened  into  spring,  the 
Captain  went  quite  often.  So,  for  that  matter, 
did  other  old  friends  of  Mrs.  North's  generation, 
who  by  and  by  began  to  smile  at  one  another, 
and  say,  "Well,  Alfred  and  Letty  are  great 
friends!"  For,  because  Captain  Price  lived  right 
across  the  street,  he  went  most  of  all.  At  least, 
that  was  what  Miss  North  said  to  herself  with 
obvious  common  sense — until  Mrs.  Cyrus  put  her 
on  the  right  track.  .  .  . 

"What!"  gasped  Mary  North.  "But  it's  im 
possible!" 

"It  would  be  very  unbecoming,  considering 
their  years,"  said  Gussie;  "but  I  worry  so,  be 
cause,  you  know,  nothing  is  impossible  when 
people  are  foolish;  and  of  course,  at  their  age, 
they  are  apt  to  be  foolish." 

So  the  seed  was  dropped.  Certainly  he  did 
come  very  often.  Certainly  her  mother  seemed 
very  glad  to  see  him.  Certainly  they  had  very 
long  talks.  Mary  North  shivered  with  appre 
hension.  But  it  was  not  until  a  week  later  that 
this  miserable  suspicion  grew  strong  enough  to 

194 


AN    ENCORE 

find  words.  It  was  after  tea,  and  the  two  ladies 
were  sitting  before  a  little  fire.  Mary  North 
had  wrapped  a  shawl  about  her  mother,  and  given 
her  a  footstool,  and  pushed  her  chair  nearer  the 
fire,  and  then  pulled  it  away,  and  opened  and  shut 
the  parlor  door  three  times  to  regulate  the  draught. 
Then  she  sat  down  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  ex 
hausted  but  alert. 

"If  there's  anything  you  want,  mother,  you'll 
be  sure  and  tell  me?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"I  think  I'd  better  put  another  shawl  over 
your  limbs?" 

"Oh  no,  indeed!" 

1 '  Mother,  are  you  sure  you  don't  feel  a  draught  ?" 

"No,  Mary;  and  it  wouldn't  hurt  me  if  I 
did!" 

"I  was  only  trying  to  make  you  comfortable — " 

"I  know  that,  my  dear;  you  are  a  very  good 
daughter.  Mary,  I  think  it  would  be  nice  if  I 
made  a  cake.  So  many  people  call,  and — " 

"I'll  make  it  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  I'll  make  it  myself,"  Mrs.  North  protested, 
eagerly;  "I'd  really  enjoy — " 

"Mother!  Tire  yourself  out  in  the  kitchen? 
No,  indeed!  Flora  and  I  will  see  to  it." 

Mrs.  North  sighed. 

Her  daughter  sighed  too;  then  suddenly  burst 
out :  ' '  Old  Captain  Price  comes  here  pretty  often. ' ' 

Mrs.  North  nodded  pleasantly.  "That  daughter- 
in-law  doesn't  half  take  care  of  him.  His  clothes 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

are  dreadfully  shabby.     There  was  a  button  off 
his  coat  to-day.    And  she's  a  foolish  creature." 

"Foolish?  She's  an  unlady-like  person!"  cried 
Miss  North,  with  so  much  feeling  that  her  mother 
looked  at  her  in  mild  astonishment.  "And  coarse, 
too,"  said  Mary  North;  "I  think  married  ladies 
are  apt  to  be  coarse.  From  association  with  men, 
I  suppose." 

"What  has  she  done?"  demanded  Mrs.  North, 
much  interested. 

"She  hinted  that  he— that  you—" 

"Well?" 

"That  he  came  here  to — to  see  you." 

"Well,  who  else  would  he  come  to  see?  Not 
you!"  said  her  mother. 

"She  hinted  that  he  might  want  to — to  marry 
you." 

"Well — upon  my  word!  I  knew  she  was  a 
ridiculous  creature,  but  really — !" 

Mary's  face  softened  with  relief.  "Of  course 
she  is  foolish;  but— 

"Poor  Alfred!  What  has  he  ever  done  to  have 
such  a  daughter-in-law?  Mary,  the  Lord  gives 
us  our  children;  but  Somebody  Else  gives  us  our 
in-laws!" 

"Mother!"  said  Mary  North,  horrified,  "you 
do  say  such  things!  But  really  he  oughtn't  to 
come  so  often.  People  will  begin  to  notice  it; 
and  then  they'll  talk.  I'll — I'll  take  you  away 
from  Old  Chester  rather  than  have  him  bother 
you." 

196 


AN    ENCORE 

"Mary,  you  are  just  as  foolish  as  his  daughter- 
in-law,"  said  Mrs.  North,  impatiently. 

And  somehow  poor  Mary  North's  heart  sank. 

Nor  was  she  the  only  perturbed  person  in  town 
that  night.  Mrs.  Cyrus  had  a  headache,  so  it 
was  necessary  for  Cyrus  to  hold  her  hand  and 
assure  her  that  Willy  King  said  a  headache  did 
not  mean  brain-fever. 

"Willy  King  doesn't  know  everything.  If  he 
had  headaches  like  mine,  he  wouldn't  be  so  sure. 
I  am  always  worrying  about  things,  and  I  believe 
my  brain  can't  stand  it.  And  now  I've  got  your 
father  to  worry  about!" 

"Better  try  and  sleep,  Gussie.  I'll  put  some 
Kaliston  on  your  head." 

4 '  Kaliston !  Kaliston  won't  keep  me  from  worry 
ing.  Oh,  listen  to  that  harmonicon!" 

"Gussie,  I'm  sure  he  isn't  thinking  of  Mrs. 
North." 

"Mrs.  North  is  thinking  of  him,  which  is  a 
great  deal  more  dangerous.  Cyrus,  you  must 
ask  Dr.  Lavendar  to  interfere." 

As  this  was  at  least  the  twentieth  assault 
upon  poor  Cyrus's  common  sense,  the  citadel 
trembled. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  go  into  brain-fever  before 
your  eyes,  just  from  worry?"  Gussie  demanded. 
"You  must  go!" 

"Well,  maybe,  perhaps,  to-morrow — " 

"To-night — to-night,"  said  Augusta,  faintly. 

And  Cyrus  surrendered. 
197 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Look  tinder  the  bed  before  you  go,"  Gussie 
murmured. 

Cyrus  looked.  "Nobody  there,"  he  said,  re 
assuringly;  and  went  on  tiptoe  out  of  the  dark 
ened,  cologne-scented  room.  But  as  he  passed 
along  the  hall,  and  saw  his  father  in  his  little 
cabin  of  a  room,  smoking  placidly,  and  polishing 
his  sextant  with  loving  hands,  Cyrus's  heart  re 
proached  him. 

"How's  her  head,  Cy?"  the  Captain  called  out. 

"Oh,  better,  I  guess,"  Cyrus  said.  ('Til  be 
hanged  if  I  speak  to  Dr.  Lavendar!") 

"That's  good,"  said  the  Captain,  beginning  to 
hoist  himself  up  out  of  his  chair.  "Going  out? 
Hold  hard,  and  I'll  go  'long.  I  want  to  call  on 
Mrs.  North." 

Cyrus  stiffened.  "Cold  night,  sir,"  he  remon 
strated. 

"Your  granny  was  Murray,  and  wore  a  black 
nightcap!'"  said  the  Captain;  "you  are  getting 
delicate  in  your  old  age,  Cy."  He  got  up,  and 
plunged  into  his  coat,  and  tramped  out,  slam 
ming  the  door  heartily  behind  him — for  which, 
later,  poor  Cyrus  got  the  credit.  "Where  you 
bound?" 

"Oh — down-street,"  said  Cyrus,  vaguely. 

"Sealed  orders?"  said  the  Captain,  with  never 
a  bit  of  curiosity  in  his  big,  kind  voice;  and  Cyrus 
felt  as  small  as  he  was.  But  when  he  left  the  old 
man  at  Mrs.  North's  door,  he  was  uneasy  again. 
Maybe  Gussie  was  right?  Women  are  keener 

198 


AN    ENCORE 

about  those  things  than  men.    And  his  uneasiness 
actually  carried  him  to  Dr.    Lavendar's   study, 
where  he  tried  to  appear  at  ease  by  patting  Danny. 
"What's  the  matter  with  you,   Cyrus?"   said 
Dr.  Lavendar,  looking  at  him  over  his  spectacles. 
(Dr.  Lavendar,  in  his  wicked  old  heart,  always 
wanted  to  call  this  young  man  Cipher;    but,  so 
far,  grace  had  been  given  him  to  withstand  temp 
tation.)    "What's  wrong?"  he  said. 
Cyrus,  somehow,  told  his  troubles. 
At    first    Dr.     Lavendar    chuckled;    then    he 
frowned.    "Gussie  put  you  up  to  this,  Cy — rus?" 
he  said. 

"Well,  my  wife's  a  woman—  "  Cyrus  began. 
"So  I  have  always  supposed,"  said  Dr.  Laven 
dar,  dryly. 

" — and  they're  keener  on  such  matters  than 
men ;  and  she  said,  perhaps  you  would — would— 

"What?"  Dr.  Lavendar  rapped  on  the  table 
with  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  so  loudly  that  Danny 
opened  one  eye.  "Would  what?" 

"Well,"  Cyrus  stammered,  "you  know,  Dr. 
Lavendar,  as  Gussie  says,  'there's  no  fo— 

"You  needn't  finish  it,"  Dr.  Lavendar  inter 
rupted,  dryly;  "I've  heard  it  before.  Gussie 
didn't  say  anything  about  a  young  fool,  did  she?" 
Then  he  eyed  Cyrus.  "Or  a  middle-aged  one? 
I've  seen  middle-aged  fools  that  could  beat  us 
old  fellows  hollow." 

"Oh,  but  Mrs.  North  is  far  beyond  middle 
age,"  said  Cyrus,  earnestly. 

199 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

Dr.  Lavendar  shook  his  head.  "Well,  well!" 
he  said.  "To  think  that  Alfred  Price's  son  should 
be  such  a—  He's  as  sensible  a  man  as  I  know!" 

"Until  now,"  Cyrus  amended.  "He's  been 
perfectly  sensible  until  now.  But  Gussie  thought 
you'd  better  caution  him.  We  don't  want  him, 
at  his  time  of  life,  to  make  a  mistake." 

"It's  much  more  to  the  point  that  I  should 
caution  you  not  to  make  a  mistake,"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar;  then  he  rapped  on  the  table  again, 
sharply.  "The  Captain  has  no  such  idea — unless 
Gussie  has  given  it  to  him.  Cyrus,  my  advice  to 
you  is  to  go  home  and  tell  your  wife  not  to  be  a 
goose.  I'll  tell  her,  if  you  want  me  to?" 

"Oh  no,  no!"  said  Cyrus,  very  much  frightened. 
"I'm  afraid  you'd  hurt  her  feelings." 

"I'm  afraid  I  should,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar, 
grimly. 

"She's  so  sensitive,"  Cyrus  tried  to  excuse  her; 
"you  can't  think  how  sensitive  she  is,  and  timid. 
I  never  knew  anybody  so  timid !  Why,  she  makes 
me  look  under  the  bed  every  night,  for  fear  there's 
somebody  there!" 

"Well,  next  time,  tell  her  'two  men  and  a  dog'; 
that  will  take  her  mind  off  your  father."  It  must 
be  confessed  that  Dr.  Lavendar  was  out  of  temper 
—a  sad  fault  in  one  of  his  age,  as  Mrs.  Drayton 
often  said.  Indeed,  his  irritability  was  so  marked 
that  Cyrus  finally  slunk  off,  uncomforted,  and 
afraid  to  meet  Gussie's  eye,  even  under  its  band 
age  of  a  cologne-scented  handkerchief. 

200 


AN    ENCORE 

However,  he  had  to  meet  it,  and  he  tried  to 
make  the  best  of  his  own  humiliation  by  saying 
that  Dr.  Lavendar  was  shocked  at  the  idea  of  the 
Captain  being  interested  in  Mrs.  North.  "He 
said  father  had  been,  until  now,  as  sensible  a 
man  as  he  knew,  and  he  didn't  believe  he  would 
think  of  such  a  dreadful  thing.  And  neither  do 
I,  Gussie,  honestly,"  Cyrus  said. 

"But  Mrs.  North  isn't  sensible,"  Gussie  pro 
tested,  "and  she'll— " 

"Dr.  Lavendar  said  'there  was  no  fool  like  a 
middle-aged  fool/"  Cyrus  agreed.. 

"Middle-aged?     She's  as  old  as  Methuselah!" 

"That's  what  I  told  him,"  said  Cyrus. 

By  the  end  of  April  Old  Chester  smiled.  How 
could  it  help  it?  Gussie  worried  so  that  she  took 
frequent  occasion  to  point  out  possibilities;  and 
after  the  first  gasp  of  incredulity,  one  could  hear 
a  faint  echo  of  the  giggles  of  forty-eight  years 
before.  Mary  North  heard  it,  and  her  heart 
burned  within  her. 

"It's  got  to  stop,"  she  said  to  herself,  passion 
ately;  "I  must  speak  to  his  son." 

But  her  throat  was  dry  at  the  thought.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  would  kill  her  to  speak  to  a 
man  on  such  a  subject,  even  to  as  little  of  a 
man  as  Cyrus  Price.  But,  poor,  shy  tigress!  to 
save  her  mother,  what  would  she  not  do?  In 
her-  pain  and  fright  she  said  to  Mrs.  North  that 
if  the  Captain  kept  on  making  her  uncom- 

201 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

fortable  and  conspicuous,  they  would  leave  Old 
Chester! 

Mrs.  North  twinkled  with  amusement  when 
Mary,  in  her  strained  and  quivering  voice,  began, 
but  her  jaw  dropped  at  those  last  words;  Mary 
was  capable  of  carrying  her  off  at  a  day's  notice! 
She  fairly  trembled  with  distressed  reassurances 
— but  Captain  Price  continued  to  call. 

And  that  was  how  it  came  about  that  this  de 
voted  daughter,  after  days  of  exasperation  and 
nights  of  anxiety,  reached  a  point  of  tense  deter 
mination:  She  would  go  and  see  the  man's  son, 
and  say.  .  .  .  That  afternoon,  as  she  stood  before 
the  swinging  glass  on  her  high  bureau,  tying  her 
bonnet-strings,  she  tried  to  think  what  she  would 
say.  She  hoped  God  would  give  her  words- 
polite  words;  "for  I  must  be  polite,"  she  reminded 
herself  desperately.  When  she  started  across  the 
street  her  Paisley  shawl  had  slipped  from  one 
shoulder,  so  that  the  point  dragged  on  the  flag 
stones;  she  had  split  her  right  glove  up  the  back, 
and  her  bonnet  was  jolted  over  sidewise;  but 
the  thick  Chantilly  veil  hid  the  quiver  of  her  chin. 

Gussie  met  her  with  effusion,  and  Mary,  striv 
ing  to  be  polite,  smiled  painfully,  and  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  see  you;  I  want  to  see  your 
husband." 

Gussie  tossed  her  head;  but  she  made  haste 
to  call  Cyrus,  who  came  shambling  along  the 
hall  from  the  cabin.  The  parlor  was  dark,  for 
though  it  was  a  day  of  sunshine  and  merry  May 

202 


AN    ENCORE 

wind,  Gussie  kept  the  shutters  bowed — but  Cyrus 
could  see  the  pale  intensity  of  his  visitor's  face. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence,  broken  by  a  distant 
harmonicon. 

"Mr.  Price,"  said  Mary  North,  with  pale, 
courageous  lips,  "you  must  stop  your  father." 

Cyrus  opened  his  weak  mouth  to  ask  an  ex 
planation,  but  Gussie  rushed  in. 

"You  are  quite  right,  ma'am.  Cyrus  worries 
so  about  it  (of  course  we  know  what  you  refer  to). 
And  Cyrus  says  it  ought  to  be  checked  imme 
diately,  to  save  the  old  gentleman!" 

"You  must  stop  him,"  said  Mary  North,  "for 
my  mother's  sake." 

"Well—"  Cyrus  began. 

"Have  you  cautioned  your  mother?"  Gussie 
demanded. 

"Yes,"  Miss  North  said,  briefly.  To  talk  to 
this  woman  of  her  mother  made  her  wince,  but 
it  had  to  be  done.  "Will  you  speak  to  your  father, 
Mr.  Price?" 

"Well,  I—" 

"Of  course  he  will!"  Gussie  broke  in;  "Cyrus, 
he  is  in  the  cabin  now." 

"Well,  to-morrow  I — "  Cyrus  got  up  and 
sidled  towards  the  door.  "Anyhow,  I  don't  be 
lieve  he's  thinking  of  such  a  thing." 

"Miss  North,"  said  Gussie,  rising,  "7  will  do 
it." 

"What,  now?"  faltered  Mary  North. 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Cyrus,  firmly. 
14  203 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  North,  "I— I  think  I  will  go 
home.  Gentlemen,  when  they  are  crossed,  speak 
so — so  earnestly." 

Gussie  nodded.  The  joy  of  action  and  of  com 
bat  entered  suddenly  into  her  little  soul;  she 
never  looked  less  vulgar  than  at  that  moment. 
Cyrus  had  disappeared. 

Mary  North,  white  and  trembling,  hurried  out. 
A  wheezing  strain  from  the  harmonicon  followed 
her  into  the  May  sunshine,  then  ended,  abruptly 
—Mrs.  Price  had  begun!  On  her  own  door-step 
Miss  North  stopped  and  listened,  holding  her 
breath  for  an  outburst.  ...  It  came:  a  roar  of 
laughter.  Then  silence.  Mary  North  stood,  mo 
tionless,  in  her  own  parlor;  her  shawl,  hanging 
from  one  elbow,  trailed  behind  her;  her  other 
glove  had  split;  her  bonnet  was  blown  back  and 
over  one  ear;  her  heart  was  pounding  in  her 
throat.  She  was  perfectly  aware  that  she  had 
done  an  unheard-of  thing.  "But,"  she  said,  aloud, 
"I'd  do  it  again.  I'd  do  anything  to  protect  her. 
But  I  hope  I  was  polite?"  Then  she  thought 
how  courageous  Mrs.  Cyrus  was.  "She's  as 
brave  as  a  lion!"  said  Mary  North.  Yet, 
had  Miss  North  been  able  to  stand  at  the 
Captain's  door,  she  would  have  witnessed  cow 
ardice.  .  .  . 

Gussie,  I  wouldn't  cry.  Confound  that  female, 
coming  over  and  stirring  you  up!  Now  don't, 
Gussie!  Why,  I  never  thought  of —  Gussie,  I 
wouldn't  cry — " 

204 


AN    ENCORE 

* '  I  have  worried  almost  to  death.    Pro-promise !" 

' '  Oh,  your  granny  was  Mur —  Gussie,  my  dear, 
now  don't." 

"Dr.  Lavendar  said  you'd  always  been  so  sen 
sible;  he  said  he  didn't  see  how  you  could  think 
of  such  a  dreadful  thing." 

"What!  Lavendar?  I'll  thank  Lavendar  to 
mind  his  own  business!"  Captain  Price  forgot 
Gussie;  he  spoke  "earnestly."  "Dog-gone  these 
people  that  pry  into —  Oh,  now,  Gussie,  don't!1' 

"I've  worried  so  awfully,"  said  Mrs.  Cyrus. 
"Everybody  is  talking  about  you.  And  Dr. 
Lavendar  is  so — so  angry  about  it;  and  now  the 
daughter  has  charged  on  me  as  though  it  is  my 
fault!  Of  course,  she  is  queer,  but — " 

"Queer?  she's  queer  as  Dick's  hat -band! 
Why  do  you  listen  to  her?  Gussie,  such  an 
idea  never  entered  my  head — or  Mrs.  North's 
either." 

"Oh  yes,  it  has!  Her  daughter  said  that  she 
had  had  to  speak  to  her — " 

Captain  Price,  dumfounded,  forgot  his  fear  and 
burst  out:  "You're  a  pack  of  fools,  the  whole 
caboodle!  I  swear  I— 

"Oh,  don't  blaspheme!"  said  Gussie,  faintly, 
and  staggered  a  little,  so  that  all  the  Captain's 
terror  returned.  If  she  fainted! 

"Hi,  there,  Cyrus!  Come  aft,  will  you?  Gus 
sie' s  getting  white  around  the  gills — Cyrus!" 

Cyrus  came,  running,  and  between  them  they 
got  the  swooning  Gussie  to  her  room.  Afterwards, 

205 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

when  Cyrus  tiptoed  down-stairs,  he  found  the 
Captain  at  the  cabin  door.  The  old  man  beckoned 
mysteriously. 

"Cy,  my  boy,  come  in  here"— he  hunted  about 
in  his  pocket  for  the  key  of  the  cupboard— 
''Cyrus,  I'll  tell  you  just  what  happened:  that 
female  across  the  street  came  in,  and  told  poor 
Gussie  some  cock-and-bull  story  about  her  mother 
and  me!"  The  Captain  chuckled,  and  picked 
up  his^harmonicon.  "It  scared  the  life  out  of 
Gussie,"  he  said;  then,  with  sudden  angry  gravity, 

"these  people  that  poke  their  noses  into  other 
people's  business  ought  to  be  thrashed.  Well, 
I'm  going  over  to  see  Mrs.  North."  And  off  he 
stumped,  leaving  Cyrus  staring  after  him,  open- 
mouthed. 

If  Mary  North  had  been  at  home,  she  would 
have  met  him  with  all  the  agonized  courage  of 
shyness  and  a  good  conscience.  But  she  had  fled 
out  of  the  house  and  down  along  the  River  Road, 
to  be  alone  and  regain  her  self-control. 

The  Captain,  however,  was  not  seeking  Miss 
North.  He  opened  the  front  door,  and  advancing 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  called  up:  "Ahoy,  there! 
Mrs.  North!" 

Mrs.  North  came  trotting  out  to  answer  the 
summons.     "Why,  Alfred!"  she  exclaimed,  look 
ing  over  the  banisters,  "when  did  you  come  in? 
(   didn't    hear    the    bell    ring.     I'll    come   right 
down." 

206 


AN   ENCORE 

"It  didn't  ring;  I  walked  in,"  said  the  Captain. 
And  Mrs.  North  came  down-stairs,  perhaps  a 
little  stiffly,  but  as  pretty  an  old  lady  as  you 
ever  saw.  Her  white  curls  lay  against  faintly 
pink  cheeks,  and  her  lace  cap  had  a  pink  bow 
on  it.  But  she  looked  anxious  and  uncomfort 
able. 

("Oh,"  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "I  do  hope 
Mary's  out!)— Well,  Alfred?"  she  said;  but  her 
voice  was  frightened. 

The  Captain  stumped  along  in  front  of  her 
into  the  parlor,  and  motioned  her  to  a  seat. 
"Mrs.  North,"  he  said,  his  face  red,  his  eye 
hard,  * '  some  jack  -  donkeys  (of  course  they're 
females)  have  been  poking  their  noses  into  our 
affairs;  and — " 

"Oh,  Alfred,  isn't  it  horrid  in  them?" 

"Darn  'em!"  said  the  Captain. 

"It  makes  me  mad!"  cried  Mrs.  North;  then 
her  spirit  wavered.  "  Mary  is  so  foolish ;  she  says 
she'll — she'll  take  me  away  from  Old  Chester. 
I  laughed  at  first,  it  was  so  foolish.  But  when 
she  said  that — oh  dear!" 

"But  my  dear  madam,  say  you  won't  go! 
Ain't  you  skipper?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  she  said,  dolefully.  "Mary 
brought  me  here,  and  she'll  take  me  away,  if  she 
thinks  it  best.  Best  for  me,  you  know.  Mary  is 
a  good  daughter,  Alfred.  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  she  isn't.  But  she's  foolish.  Unmarried 
women  are  apt  to  be  foolish." 

207 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

The  Captain  thought  of  Gussie  and  sighed. 
"Well,"  he  said,  with  the  simple  candor  of  the 
sea,  "I  guess  there  ain't  much  difference  in  'em, 
married  or  unmarried.*' 

"It's  the  interference  makes  me  mad,"  Mrs. 
North  declared,  hotly. 

"Damn  the  whole  crew!"  said  the  Captain; 
and  the  old  lady  laughed  delightedly. 

"Thank  you,  Alfred!" 

"My  daughter-in-law  is  crying  her  eyes  out," 
the  Captain  sighed. 

"Tck!"  said  Mrs.  North;  "Alfred,  you  have  no 
sense.  Let  her  cry.  It's  good  for  her!" 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  Captain,  shocked. 

"You're  a  perfect  slave  to  her,"  said  Mrs. 
North. 

"No  more  than  you  are  to  your  daughter/' 
Captain  Price  defended  himself:  and  Mrs.  North 
sighed. 

"We  are  just  real  foolish,  Alfred,  to  listen  to 
'em.  As  if  we  didn't  know  what  was  good  for 


us." 


"People  have  interfered  with  us  a  good  deal, 
first  and  last,"  the  Captain  said,  grimly. 

The  faint  color  in  Mrs.  North's  cheeks  suddenly 
deepened.  "So  they  have." 

The  Captain  shook  his  head  in  a  discouraged 
way;  he  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  pocket  and 
looked  at  it  absent-mindedly.  "I  suppose  I  can 
stay  at  home,  and  let  'em  get  over  it?" 

"Stay  at  home?    Why,  you'd  far  better—" 
208 


AN    ENCORE 

"What?"  said  the  Captain. 

"Come  oftener!  Let  'em  get  over  it  by  getting 
used  to  it." 

Captain  Price  looked  doubtful.  ' '  But  how  about 
your  daughter?" 

Mrs.  North  quailed.  "I  forgot  Mary,"  she  ad 
mitted. 

"I  don't  bother  you,  coming  to  see  you,  do  I?" 
the  Captain  said,  anxiously. 

"Why,  Alfred,  I  love  to  see  you, — if  our  chil 
dren  would  just  let  us  alone!" 

"First  it  was  our  parents,"  said  Captain  Price. 
He  frowned  heavily.  "According  to  other  people, 
first  we  were  too  young  to  have  sense;  and  now 
we're  too  old."  He  took  out  his  worn  tobacco- 
pouch,  plugged  some  shag  into  his  pipe,  and 
struck  a  match  under  the  mantelpiece.  He 
sighed  with  deep  discouragement. 

Mrs.  North  sighed  too.  Neither  of  them  spoke 
for  a  moment;  then  the  little  old  lady  drew  a 
quick  breath  and  flashed  a  look  at  him;  opened 
her  lips;  closed  them  with  a  snap;  then  regarded 
the  toe  of  her  slipper  fixedly.  The  color  flooded 
up  to  her  soft  white  hair. 

The  Captain,  staring  hopelessly,  suddenly 
blinked;  then  his  honest  red  face  broadened  into 
beaming  astonishment  and  satisfaction.  "Mrs. 
North— r 

"Captain  Price!"  she  parried,  breathlessly. 

"So  long  as  our  affectionate  children  have  sug 
gested  it!" 

209 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

'  'Suggested— what?" 

" Let's  give  'em  something  to  cry  about!" 

"Alfred!" 

"Look  here:  we  are  two  old  fools;  so  they  say, 
anyway.  Let's  live  up  to  their  opinion!  I'll  get 
a  house  for  Cyrus  and  Gussie — and  your  girl  can 
live  with  'em,  if  she  wants  to."  The  Captain's 
bitterness  showed  then.  "What  do  you  say?" 

Mrs.  North  laughed  excitedly,  and  shook  her 
head;  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  want  to  leave  Old  Chester?"  the 
Captain  demanded. 

"You  know  I  don't,"  she  said,  sighing. 

"She'd  take  you  away  to-morrow,"  he  threat 
ened,  "if  she  knew  I  had — had — " 

"She  sha'n't  know  it." 

"Well,  then,  we've  got  to  get  spliced  to-mor 
row." 

"Oh,  Alfred,  no!  I  don't  believe  Dr.  Lavendar 
would- 

"I'll  have  no  dealings  with  Lavendar,"  the  Cap 
tain  said,  with  sudden  stiffness;  "he's  like  all  the 
rest  of  'em.  I'll  get  a  license  in  Upper  Chester, 
and  we'll  go  to  some  parson  there." 

Mrs.  North's  eyes  snapped.  "Oh,  no,  no!"  she 
protested ;  but  in  another  minute  they  were  shak 
ing  hands  on  it. 

"Cyrus  and  Gussie  can  go  and  live  by  them 
selves,"  said  the  Captain,  joyously,  "and  I'll  get 
that  hold  cleaned  out;  she's  kept  the  ports  shut 
ever  since  she  married  Cyrus." 

210 


AN    ENCORE 

"And  111  make  a  cake!  And  I'll  take  care  of 
your  clothes;  you  really  are  dreadfully  shabby"; 
she  turned  him  round  to  the  light  and  brushed 
off  some  ashes.  The  Captain  beamed.  "Poor 
Alfred!  and  there's  a  button  gone!  that  daughter- 
in-law  of  yours  can't  sew  any  more  than  a  cat 
(and  she  is  a  cat).  But  I  love  to  mend.  Mary 
has  saved  me  all  that.  She's  such  a  good  daugh 
ter —  poor  Mary.  But  she's  unmarried,  poor 
child." 

However,  it  was  not  to-morrow.  It  was  two  or 
three  days  later  that  Dr.  Lavendar  and  Danny, 
jogging  along  behind  Goliath  under  the  button- 
woods  on  the  road  to  Upper  Chester,  were  some 
what  inconvenienced  by  the  dust  of  a  buggy  that 
crawled  up  and  down  the  hills  just  a  little  ahead. 
The  hood  of  this  buggy  was  up,  upon  which  fact 
— it  being  a  May  morning  of  rollicking  wind  and 
sunshine — Dr.  Lavendar  speculated  to  his  com 
panion:  "Daniel,  the  man  in  that  vehicle  is  either 
blind  and  deaf,  or  else  he  has  something  on  his 
conscience;  in  either  case  he  won't  mind  our 
dust,  so  we'll  cut  in  ahead  at  the  watering-trough. 
G'on,  Goliath!" 

But  Goliath  had  views  of  his  own  about  the 
watering- trough,  and  instead  of  passing  the  hooded 
buggy,  which  had  stopped  there,  he  insisted  upon 
drawing  up  beside  it.  "Now,  look  here,"  Dr. 
Lavendar  remonstrated,  "you  know  you're  not 
thirsty."  But  Goliath  plunged  his  nose  down  into 

211 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

the  cool  depths  of  the  great  iron  caldron,  into 
which,  from  a  hollow  log,  ran  a  musical  drip  of 
water.  Dr.  Lavendar  and  Danny,  awaiting  his 
pleasure,  could  hear  a  murmur  of  voices  from  the 
depths  of  the  eccentric  vehicle  which  put  up  a 
hood  on  such  a  day;  when  suddenly  Dr.  Lav- 
endar's  eye  fell  on  the  hind  legs  of  the  other 
horse.  "That's  Cipher's  trotter,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  and  leaning  out,  cried:  "Hi!Cy?"  At  which 
the  other  horse  was  drawn  in  with  a  jerk,  and 
Captain  Price's  agitated  face  peered  out  from 
under  the  hood. 

"Where!  Where's  Cyrus?"  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  Dr.  Lavendar.  "'The  devil  and  Tom 
Walker'!'1  said  the  Captain,  with  a  groan.  The 
buggy  backed  erratically. 

"Look  out!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar — but  the  wheels 
locked. 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  for  Dr.  Laven 
dar  to  do  but  get  out  and  take  Goliath  by  the 
head,  grumbling,  as  he  did  so,  that  the  Captain 
"shouldn't  drive  such  a  spirited  beast." 

"I  am  somewhat  hurried,"  said  Captain  Price, 
stiffly. 

The  old  minister  looked  at  him  over  his  spec 
tacles;  then  he  glanced  at  the  small,  embarrassed 
figure  shrinking  into  the  depths  of  the  buggy. 

("Hullo,  hullo,  hullo!"  he  said,  softly.  "Well, 
Gussie's  done  it!)  You'd  better  back  a  little, 
Captain,"  he  advised. 

"I  can  manage." 

212 


AN   ENCORE 

"I  didn't  say  'go  back,"'  Dr.  Lavendar  said, 
mildly. 

"Oh!"  murmured  a  small  voice  from  within  the 
buggy. 

"I  expect  you  need  me,  don't  you,  Alfred?" 
said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"What?"  said  the  Captain,  frowning. 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you  and  Mrs. 
North,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  "I  shall  be  very  glad." 

Captain  Price  looked  at  him.  ' '  Now,  look  here, 
Lavendar,  we're  going  to  do  it  this  time,  if  all  the 
parsons  in — hell,  try  to  stop  us!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  try  to  stop  you." 

"But  Gussie  said  you  said — " 

"Alfred,  at  your  time  of  life,  are  you  beginning 
to  quote  Gussie?" 

"But  she  said  you  said  it  would  be — " 

"Captain  Price,  I  do  not  express  my  opinion 
of  your  conduct  to  your  daughter-in-law.  You 
ought  to  have  sense  enough  to  know  that." 

"Well,  why  did  you  talk  to  her  about  it?" 

"I  didn't  talk  to  her  about  it.  But,"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar,  thrusting  out  his  lower  lip,  "I  should 
like  to!" 

"We  were  going  to  hunt  up  a  parson  in  Upper 
Chester,"  said  the  Captain,  sheepishly. 

Dr.  Lavendar  looked  about,  up  and  down  the 
silent,  shady  road,  then  through  the  bordering 
elderberries  into  an  orchard.  "If  you  have  your 
license,"  he  said,  "I  have  my  prayer-book.  Let's 
go  into  the  orchard.  There  are  two  men  working 

213 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

there    we    can    get    for   witnesses — Danny   isn't 
quite  enough,  I  suppose." 

The  Captain  turned  to  Mrs.  North.  "What 
do  you  say,  ma'am?"  he  said.  She  nodded,  and 
gathered  up  her  skirts  to  get  out  of  the  buggy. 
The  two  old  men  led  their  horses  to  the  side  of 
the  road  and  hitched  them  to  the  rail  fence;  then 
the  Captain  helped  Mrs.  North  through  the 
elder-bushes,  and  shouted  out  to  the  men  plowing 
at  the  other  side  of  the  orchard.  They  came— 
big,  kindly  young  fellows,  and  stood  gaping  at 
the  three  old  people  standing  under  the  apple- 
tree  in  the  sunshine.  Dr.  Lavendar  explained 
that  they  were  to  be  witnesses,  and  the  boys 
took  off  their  hats. 

There  was  a  little  silence,  and  then,  in  the 
white  shadows  and  perfume  of  the  orchard,  with 
its  sunshine,  and  drift  of  petals  falling  in  the  gay 
wind,  Dr.  Lavendar  began.  .  .  .  When  he  came  to 
"Let  no  man  put  asunder — "  Captain  Price 
growled  in  his  grizzled  red  beard,  "Nor  woman, 
either!"  But  only  Mrs.  North  smiled. 

When  it  was  over,  Captain  Price  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief.  "Well,  this  time  we  made  a 
sure  thing  of  it,  Mrs.  North!" 

"Mrs.  North?'1  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  and  chuckled. 

"Oh—  "  said  Captain  Price,  and  roared  at  the 
joke. 

11  You'll  have  to  call  me  Letty,"  said  the  pretty 
old  lady,  smiling  and  blushing. 

"Oh,"   said  the  Captain;    then  he  hesitated. 
214 


AN    ENCORE 

"Well,  now,  if  you  don't  mind,  I — I  guess  I  won't 
call  you  Letty.  I'll  call  you  Letitia." 

"Call  me  anything  you  want  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Price,  gayly. 

Then  they  all  shook  hands  with  one  another 
and  with  the  witnesses,  who  found  something  left 
in  their  palms  that  gave  them  great  satisfaction, 
and  went  back  to  climb  into  their  respective 
buggies. 

"We  have  shore  leave,"  the  Captain  explained; 
"we  won't  go  back  to  Old  Chester  for  a  few  days. 
You  may  tell  'em,  Lavendar!" 

"Oh,  may  I?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  blankly. 
"Well,  good-by,  and  good  luck!" 

He  watched  the  other  buggy  tug  on  ahead, 
and  then  he  leaned  down  to  catch  Danny  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck. 

"Well,  Daniel,"  he  said,  "'#  at  first  you  don't 
succeed1 — " 

And  Danny  was  pulled  into  the  buggy. 


THE    THIRD    VOLUME 


THE  THIRD  VOLUME 


"VfOU  could  write   my  life  in  two  volumes," 

1  Mr.  Peter  Walton  used  to  say,  in  his  loud, 
good-humored  voice:  "Vol.  L:  All  Peter.  Vol. 
II.:  Eunice  and  some  Peter." 

"The  first  volume  would  be  short,"  his  brother 
Paul  observed;  and  Peter  agreed  that  it  would 
not  only  be  short — he  was  twenty-four  when  he 
and  Eunice  were  married,  and  they  were  well 
along  in  the  fifties  now, — but  worthless. 

"The  second  volume,"  he  said,  modestly,  "has 
some  respectable  things  in  it,  but  Eunice  is  the 
author  of  'em." 

There  were  many  respectable  things  in  it; 
enough  to  make  all  but  the  very  good  people  of 
Old  Chester  forget  the  contents  of  Volume  I. 
Those  who  were  not  very  good,  like  William  King, 
or  who  had  defective  memories,  like  Dr.  Lavendar, 
were  heartily  fond  of  the  lovable,  powerful, 
opinionated  man. 

But  long  after  the  new  leaf  had  been  turned 
over,  and  his  wife  had  begun  to  write  the  second 
15  219 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

volume,  the  good  people  continued  to  have  him 
on  their  minds.  For  one  thing,  he  sometimes 
drank  too  much;  and  then  as  Good  People  like 
to  remember  (at  the  Throne  of  Grace,  if  nowhere 
else),  the  things  that  Bad  People  would  like  to 
forget — there  was  that  old  friendship  with  Miss 
Betsey  Darling.  (Miss  Darling's  name  was  never 
mentioned  before  the  chaste  ears  of  Old  Chester 
ladies,  yet,  somehow,  it  was  the  ladies  who  prayed 
for  Mr.  Walton!) 

Briefly,  the  Peter  Walton  of  the  second  volume 
was  an  honest  and  able  gentleman,  who  repre 
sented  us  in  Congress,  went  regularly  to  church, 
and  supposed  that  religion  meant  the  contribu 
tion-box  and  the  privilege  of  keeping  Dr.  Laven- 
dar  supplied  with  extremely  good  tobacco.  Also, 
he  was  of  that  pleasant  temperament  which  be 
lieves  whatever  it  is  comfortable  to  believe;  he 
was  always  able  to  explain  facts  to  suit  his  mental 
necessities. 

His  brother  Paul,  a  little,  spectacled  man, 
whose  mild  eyes  never  blinked  the  truth,  whether 
it  was  pleasant  or  unpleasant, — was  nearly  fifteen 
years  his  senior.  Paul  was,  in  Old  Chester's  opin 
ion,  entirely  ineffective.  Once  he  did  effect  some 
thing,  but  only  two  or  three  people  knew  it,  and 
to  them  the  thing  he  effected  was  accidental;  it 
was,  Jim  Williams  said,  as  if  a  child  had  stopped 
a  locomotive  by  rolling  a  rock  on  to  the  track. 
"But  he  did  stop  the  locomotive,"  Dr.  King  re 
minded  him. 


220 


THE    THIRD    VOLUME 

"Happened  to,"  Mr.  Williams  said,  laconically. 

The  "locomotive"  was  Peter's  affair  with  the 
lady  whose  name  was  only  mentioned  at  the 
Throne  of  Grace.  It  was  when  Peter  was  about 
twenty-two  that  he  made  an  ass  of  himself  (to 
put  it  mildly);  at  any  rate,  Old  Chester  really 
had  cause  to  be  shocked,  and  as  for  Mr.  Paul 
Walton's  feelings— 

The  story  ran  that  Peter  kicked  the  door  of  his 
brother's  room  open  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  rushed  in,  blazing  with  anger. 

"Look  here!"  he  said;  "somebody,  I  don't 
know  who — some  damned  old-maid  skunk,  I  sup 
pose;  has  seen — seen  fit—  "  he  trembled  so  with 
rage  that  he  stammered;  "to  take  it  upon  him 
self  to  interfere  between  me  and  a — a  friend  of 
mine;  and  she — she — 

Paul,  lying  in  the  big  four-poster  that  looked 
like  a  raft  with  a  mahogany  obelisk  at  each  cor 
ner,  woke  with  a  start,  and  sat  up,  rubbing  his 
eyes. 

"She's  going  away;  she  wouldn't  see  me" — 
Peter  raved  on;  he  was  frantic  with  pain.  "She 
wouldn't  see  me,  I  tell  you!  She  sent  down  word 
she  was  going  away.  I've  been  under  her  window 
all  night,  and  she  wouldn't  speak.  I—  '  a  sob 
swelled  in  his  young  throat — "I'll  kill  the  damned 
coward  who  put  her  against  me;  I'll — 

Paul  nodded  gravely;  "Then  she  is  honest,"  he 
said;  "I  thought  she  was.  Poor  creature!" 

"If  I  find  out  who  set  her  against  me,"  the 

221 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

younger  brother  stormed,  shaking  his  fists  above 
his  head,  "I'll  kill  him!" 

"I  paid  her  to  get  out  of  town,"  Paul  said, 
mildly. 

The  next  few  minutes  were  unprintable.  What 
Peter  said,  and  then  what  he  did,  left  a  scar  of 
remorse  on  his  own  mind  which  no  later  contri 
tion  could  remove.  For  after  a  while,  in  spite  of 
the  agony  of  loss — to  a  boy  of  twenty-two  it 
was  agony — and  the  excruciating  humiliation  of 
being  protected  by  another  man — Peter  was  con 
trite,  and  said  so.  A  year  or  two  later,  when  he 
met  Eunice  Haydon,  he  even  had  a  sort  of  grati 
tude  to  his  brother,  who  had  "accidentally" 
stopped  the  locomotive. 

He  grinned  over  it  to  himself,  and  wondered 
how  Paul  had  the  courage — "for  I'm  not  pretty 
when  I'm  mad,"  he  reflected,  candidly.  "But 
old  Paul,  sitting  up  there  in  bed,  rubbing  his 
eyes  like  a  baby,  was  as  plucky  as  a  game 
cock!"  Yet  neither  Peter,  nor  Jim  Williams,  nor 
the  doctor  credited  Paul's  conduct  to  intelligence. 
"He  just  took  it  into  his  head,"  Peter  told  him 
self. 

The  fact  was,  Peter's  large  and  buoyant  per 
sonality  so  swamped  Paul  that  no  one  really  knew 
him.  He  was  supposed  to  be  timid,  because  he 
never  contradicted  anybody,  and  opinionless,  be 
cause  he  never  dogmatized.  He  just  pottered 
about  in  the  Thomas  Walton's  Sons'  warehouse, 
losing  money  on  scrupulosities  of  truth-telling 


222 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

which  discouraged  buyers,  and  too  busy,  he  said, 
even  to  read  the  newspaper. 

"If  Paul,"  the  younger  brother  used  to  bawl 
out,  "had  tar  on  the  seat  of  his  breeches,  and  sat 
down  in  a  bushel  of  doubloons,  not  one  of  'em 
would  stick  to  him!" 

Many  doubloons,  so  to  speak,  had  in  course  of 
time  stuck  to  Peter — "and  Paul  and  I  go  halves 
on  everything,"  Peter  said,  simply. 

The  two  brothers  were  alike  only  in  their  un 
shakable  integrity  and,  of  course,  in  their  belief 
that  there  was  no  place  on  earth  that  compared 
to  Old  Chester  as  a  place  of  residence.  (It  is  only 
fair  to  say  they  were  right  about  that;  anybody 
who  has  lived  there  will  tell  you  the  same  thing.) 
In  fact,  the  Walton  brothers  were  just  like  every 
body  else  in  town — good  and  bad. 

But  Peter's  wife,  the  Eunice  of  Volume  II., 
was  not  like  Old  Chester,  because  she  was  only 
good.  To  begin  with,  she  was  a  Quakeress — one 
of  the  Brighton  Haydons,  who  had  a  pedigree  of 
saintliness  reaching  back  to  English  scourgings 
and  buffet  ings.  Perhaps  it  was  the  blood  of  the 
martyrs  in  her  which  made  her  marry  Peter; 
but  whatever  it  was,  she  listened  to  the  remon 
strances  of  the  whole  Hay  don  connection,  then 
calmly  accepted  the  godly  ostracism  of  Brighton, 
and  married  her  worldling.  Even  her  lover  was 
awed  by  her  serene  indifference  to  family  dis 
pleasure. 

"If  she  had  taken  old  Paulus  "  he  said,   "I 
223 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

could  understand  it;  for  one  thing,  his  clothes 
are  always  in  order,  whereas  I  look  like  a  rag-and- 
bottle  man." 

This  was  a  week  before  the  wedding;  it  was 
after  dinner,  and  the  table  had  been  cleared. 
Peter  and  Jim  Williams  were  playing  poker, 
while  Dr.  King  and  Paul  Walton  looked  on. 

"Confound  you  both!"  Peter  had  complained; 
"this  two-handed  business  is  'pap.'" 

The  onlookers  had  refused  Peter's  invitation  to 
take  a  hand;  William  (a  newly  married  man 
then),  because  his  Martha  disapproved  of  poker, 
and  Paul  because  he  didn't  care  to  lie,  even  in  a 
game— "anyway,  you  haven't  the  brains  for  it, 
my  good  fellow,"  Peter  said,  frankly. 

"It  may  be  'pap,'"  said  Jim,  "but—"  and  he 
very  successfully  called  his  opponent's  bluff;  a 
moment  later  he  began  to  count  his  winnings  on 
penny  stakes.  Peter,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  put  his 
feet  on  the  table  and  ate  a  peach.  A  fruit-dish 
on  the  sideboard  had  invited  wasps  from  a  garden 
drowsing  in  the  September  sunshine,  but  the  heel 
taps  in  the  glasses  had  become  more  attractive  to 
them  than  the  fruit.  Peter,  brushing  one  of  the 
intruders  away  with  an  impatient  hand,  threw 
his  peach-stone  at  his  brother. 

"Old  Paul,"  he  said,  "isn't  such  an  awful  con 
trast  to  those  holy  Haydons;  but  me!" 

"You  are  wrong,  my  dear  Peter,"  Paul  ob 
jected,  politely;  "Miss  Haydon  never  would  have 
honored  me  with  her  regard." 

224 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

"Mrs.  Drayton  is  so  doubtful  about  Miss  Hay- 
don's  future  happiness,  that  she  says  she  is  go 
ing  to  remember  her  in  her  prayers,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"Hate  to  have  old  Hellpestle  tax  her  memory," 
said  Peter. 

"I'll  trouble  you  for  two  dollars  and  forty- two 
cents,  Pete,"  said  Jim  Williams. 

"It's  the  contrast  that  caught  her,"  the  doctor 
said. 

Peter  took  his  feet  off  the  table.  (The  two 
brothers  lived  by  themselves,  unhampered  by 
feminine  refinements;  still,  it  was  only  Peter  who 
put  his  feet  on  the  dinner-table — "and  you'll 
stop  it  in  eight  days!"  said  William  King.) 

Paul,  in  tight  pantaloons  and  perfectly  fitting 
coat,  stood  with  an  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  re 
garding  the  other  three  through  mildly  gleaming 
spectacles. 

"That's  a  good  idea  of  William's,"  he  ventured 
to  say;  "it  is  doubtless  because  you  are  unlike 
the  young  lady  that  you  have  won  her  affections." 
(Mr.  Paul  Walton's  decorum  of  dress,  manners, 
and  language  was  held  up  to  Old  Chester  boys 
by  every  maiden  aunt  in  town.) 

Peter,  who  had  brought  his  chair  down  on  all 
four  legs,  sat  up  very  straight,  and  fumbled  in 
his  pocket  for  Jim's  two  dollars  and  forty-two 
cents. 

"Take  it,  dog-gone  you!"  he  said,  amiably. 
"There's  something  in  that  idea  of  contrast, 

225 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Sawbones,"  he  ruminated;  "yes;  that  may  be  it. 
(Darn  these  wasps!)  I've  sometimes  thought  the 
Creator  must  find  Lucifer  more  entertaining  than 
Gabriel." 

"I  don't  call  you  Lucifer,"  Paul  protested. 

1  'Some  do,"  Jim  Williams  said,  dryly. 

"I  don't  know  that  Miss  Haydon's  regard  for 
you  is  any  more  remarkable  than  yours  for  her," 
Dr.  King  said. 

"That's  the  worst  thing  that  was  ever  said 
about  me,"  Peter  declared,  placidly.  .  .  .  " Willy, 
I  hear  Alex  Morgan  is  going  to  leave  town;  did 
you  know  it?" 

"Good  idea,"  said  Paul. 

"We  can  spare  him,"  Jim  Williams  declared. 
"Peter,  he  calls  you  some  pretty  names." 

"Well,"  Peter  said,  "I  called  him  some.  I 
threw  the  whole  deck  in  his  face,  and  said 
why." 

"Queer,"  Dr.  King  commented;  "I  shouldn't 
have  thought  that  even  Alex  Morgan  would  have 
sold  his  reputation  for  a  jack-pot." 

"His  reputation  was  so  small,  a  deuce  in  his 
sleeve  could  buy  it,"  Peter  explained. 

"But  to  cheat!"  Jim  said;  "I'd  sooner  cut  a 
throat." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Peter  agreed,  carelessly;  "a  gentle 
man  can  cut  a  throat,  but  he  can't  cheat.  As  for 
Alex,  he's  a  dead  dog  so  far  as  this  community 
is  concerned,  so  the  sooner  he  gets  out  of  it  the 
better.  If  he  were  my  own  brother,  I'd  put  on 

226 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

a  pair  of  new  boots  and  assist  his  departure! 
And  I'd  never  speak  to  him  again." 

"You  are  a  gentle,  forgiving  creature,  Pete," 
the  doctor  said,  admiringly. 

"'Ne  obliviscaris"'  Peter  began;  but  at  that 
moment  a  wasp,  which  had  been  hovering  over 
a  wine-glass,  lit  on  his  wrist,  and  instantly  his 
stamping  rage  changed  the  subject. 

*  *  Suffering  snakes !  the  thing  bit  me !  Do  some 
thing,  Willy!  Do  something!" 

"Spit  on  it,"  Jim  Williams  advised,  riffling 
the  cards  lazily. 

"Good  idea,"  Paul  said,  his  spectacles  shining 
with  sympathy. 

"It  '11  quiet  down,"  the  doctor  told  him;  but 
Peter  swore  and  roared,  and  told  him  he  was  a 
fool.  "Can't  you  stop  it?  What's  the  use  of 
being  a  sawbones?  Paul,  haven't  you  got  some 
thing  among  your  powders  and  perfumes?  You 
ought  to  see  Paul's  bureau,"  he  said,  chuckling. 
"Look  here,  Willy,  it  hurts  like  the  devil!" 

"Peter  can't  stand  discomfort  for  a  minute," 
Paul  remarked. 

" Discomfort!"  Peter  said,  sucking  his  wrist; 
"I  wish  he'd  bit  you  in  six  places!" 

"I  would  suggest — "  Paul  began,  anxiously; 
but  nobody  listened  to  his  suggestion. 

"Pity  your  Quakeress  can't  see  you  now,"  Dr. 
King  said,  sardonically. 

All  the  same,  William  thought  that  the  Qua 
keress  had  done  well  for  herself;  he  and  the  big, 

227 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

violent,  honest  man  had  been  friends  ever  since 
they  were  born,  and  his  affection  was  not  de 
pendent  upon  Peter's  manners  or  language.  But 
William's  wife  had  wondered  at  Miss  Haydon's 
choice  quite  as  much  as  did  the  humble  and  suc 
cessful  lover. 

"Mr.  Paul  Walton  would  certainly  be  more 
suitable,"  she  had  told  her  husband  when  the 
engagement  came  out.  "I  very  much  fear  Mr. 
Peter's  language  will  shock  a  Quaker  girl." 

"He's  going  to  speak  Miss  Haydon's  language," 
William  had  retorted;  "he's  going  to  say  'thee' 
and  'thou.'" 

Mrs.  King  sniffed:  "There  are  other  words  than 
'thee'  and  'thou'  in  Peter  Walton's  vocabulary. 
Mrs.  Drayton  thinks  it  is  somebody's  duty  to 
tell  the  girl,  flatly  and  frankly,  about  his  card- 
playing,  and  about— about  That  Person." 

"Let  me  know  when  you  do  your  duty,  my  dear. 
I'd  like  to  be  behind  the  door,"  said  William. 

So  far,  nobody  had  done  his  duty  in  regard  to 
Miss  Darling;  but  Willy  King  took  the  oppor 
tunity,  while  Peter  was  sucking  his  wrist,  to  re 
port  Mrs.  Dray  ton's  feeling  about  cards. 

"Tell  her  I'm  going  to  come  down  to  back 
gammon,"  Peter  mumbled.  "Eunice  says  cards 
are  the  devil's  hymn-book,  but  she  won't  mind 
backgammon." 

"Is  Miss  Haydon  under  the  impression  that 
the  devil  has  no  interest  in  dice?"  Jim  asked, 
grinning. 

228 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

"I  told  her  I  never  had  gambled  at  backgam 
mon,'  '  Peter  said,  simply.  '  *  I  told  her  backgammon 
wasn't  like  cards." 

"Peter  can  make  himself  believe  whatever  he 
finds  convenient,"  William  King  said,  admiringly. 

"Anyway,  there'll  be  no  stakes,"  Peter  de 
clared;  "Eunice  says  gambling's  wrong." 

"She's  going  to  make  you  walk  straight, 
Peter!" 

"I  shall  walk  wherever  she  tells  me,"  he  said. 

"How  long  do  you  give  him  to  get  over  it, 
Willy?"  Jim  inquired. 

Willy  did  not  commit  himself;  he  had  "got 
over"  it  himself  rather  quickly;  but  what  was 
the  use  of  saying  so?  However,  he  and  Jim  re 
ported  to  Old  Chester  that  Peter  had  forsworn 
cards  for  the  sake  of  his  Quaker  lady-love.  When 
Mrs.  Dray  ton  heard  that,  she  was  greatly  as 
tonished;  she  said  that  perhaps,  after  all,  her 
prayers  had  been  answered! 

"Apparently  she  hadn't  overmuch  faith  in 
prayer,"  Peter  said.  This  was  on  his  wedding- 
day,  and  he  was  standing  in  front  of  Paul's  look 
ing-glass,  swearing  and  perspiring  over  his  white 
tie,  while  the  doctor  and  Jim  Williams  offered 
him  the  assistance  of  their  impudence. 

"I  would  suggest  that  you  turn  the  short 
end —  Paul  began  to  instruct  him;  but  no 
one  listened. 

"I  understand  Mrs.  Dray  ton  'hopes'  the  mar 
riage  will  turn  out  well,"  Willy  King  said. 

229 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Well,  so  do  I,"  said  Peter.     "Darn  this  tie! 
Suffering  snakes!" 


ii 

The  marriage  did  turn  out  well — very  well, 
although  it  was  put  to  two  pretty  severe  tests. 
The  first  was  wealth:  Eunice  had  money,  so  she 
and  Peter  did  not  have  the  mutual  anxieties  and 
interests  of  poverty  to  weld  them  together;  the 
next  was  childlessness.  With  neither  poverty 
nor  children  to  make  two,  one,  marriage  easily 
lapses  into  the  mere  habit  of  living  together, 
which  at  best  is  dull,  and  at  worst  is — well,  call 
it  "war." 

The  bride  and  groom  settled  down  in  the  old 
Walton  house.  Of  course  Paul  never  dreamed  of 
leaving  them;  for  one  thing,  the  place  happened 
to  be  his,  but  nobody  remembered  that. 

The  house,  with  the  white  pillars  of  its  portico 
rising  above  the  second-story  windows,  stood 
close  to  the  river,  where  the  sleek  gleam  of  water 
curving  over  the  dam  filled  the  air  with  soft,  un 
ending  thunder.  Yet  it  was  a  house  of  quietness. 
As  soon  as  you  entered  it  silence  seemed  to  close 
about  you.  Excited  men  who  came  to  talk  poli 
tics  with  Peter  instinctively  lowered  their  voices, 
and  once  across  his  own  threshold  even  Peter's 
resonant  tones  fell  to  Eunice's  calm  key. 

Children  would  have  broken   the  quietness— 
"but  I'm  satisfied!"  Peter  would  say.     And  no 

230 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

doubt  he  believed  that  he  was;  it  was  pleasanter 
to  believe  that  than  to  sigh  for  an  heir.  ' '  I  wouldn't 
want  a  lot  of  brats,  with  their  measles  and  their 
mumps,  bawling  about,  and  taking  thy  attention 
from  me!"  he  used  to  announce,  loudly. 

What  Eunice  wanted,  she  did  not  say,  and  he 
did  not  see  how  her  ''attention"  to  him  betrayed 
the  desire  of  her  empty  arms. 

Most  childless  wives  who  love  their  husbands 
are  maternal  in  their  care  of  them.  Eunice  or 
dered  Peter's  clothes,  and  tried  patiently  to  keep 
him  tidy;  she  reminded  him  of  his  engagements 
and  saw  that  he  did  not  spend  too  much  money. 
Before  making  a  public  address,  he  used  to  "speak 
his  piece"  to  her,  and  she  coached  him,  as  no 
doubt  his  mother,  when  he  was  twelve  years  old, 
had  coached  his 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 

And  she  told  him  what  he  must  eat — and  what 
he  must  not  drink.  (Alas,  how  many  mothers 
try  to  do  that!) 

She  reproved  him  when  he  did  wrong,  but  she 
never  talked  religion  to  him;  she  merely  took 
him  to  church,  and  tried  to  keep  him  awake  dur 
ing  the  sermon. 

"I  didn't  know  that,"  he  used  to  say,  when  some 
theological  statement  happened  to  catch  his  ear; 
"do  we  believe  that,  Eunice?" 

"Yes,"  she  would  instruct  him. 

"Oh,  you  don't  say  so!  Well,  all  right;  then 
231 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

it's  so,"  he  would  say,  cheerfully.  But  he  never 
came  nearer  to  the  things  of  the  Spirit  than  such 
artless  acceptance  of  this  or  that  article  of  faith 
to  which  Dr.  Lavendar  might  refer  and  which 
Eunice  might  indorse.  Only  once  was  he  known 
to  have  instructed  her.  He  had  spoken  violently 
of  that  old  scandal  about  Alex  Morgan,  and  she 
had  rebuked  him: 

''A  mere  game  is  not  worthy  of  such  words 
Peter." 

Then  he  did  speak  up.  "Thee's  always  right 
in  everything— except  this.  This,  thee  doesn't 
understand.  A  lady  can't,  I  suppose.  It  isn't  a 
matter  of  a  game;  it  is  a  matter  of  honor.  Alex 
is  damned." 

" Then  he  needs  thy  forgiveness." 
"Eunice,"  he  said,  quietly,  "God  and  a  lady 
may  forgive  cheating,  but  I  don't."  He  accepted 
with  secret  amusement  this  innocent  ignorance 
of  " honor."  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he 
explained  it  to  himself  in  a  way  that  made  what 
would  have  been  a  defect  in  any  one  else  redound 
to  her  credit.  "She  is  so  perfect,  she  can't  even 
recognize  imperfection  when  she  sees  it!"  But  in 
all  lesser  matters  than  "honor,"  in  religion,  or 
clothes  or  manners,  he  accepted  her  guidance 'im 
plicitly,  and  believed  whatever  she  told  him. 

It  was  the  mother  in  her  that  cared  for  the 
lesser  matters,  but  it  was  the  wife  who  helped 
him  fight  with  the  beasts  at  Ephesus;  when  the 
beasts  were  vanquished,  the  wife  exulted;  when 

232 


THE    THIRD    VOLUME 

they  won,  the  mother  forgave.  ...  He  never  went 
near  Betsey  Darling's  end  of  the  town  (Betsey 
had  drifted  back  to  Old  Chester);  gambling,  of 
course,  had  ceased  with  his  marriage;  and  cer 
tainly  he  never  swore — in  Eunice's  presence.  But 
conviviality  remained  the  weak  place  in  his  armor. 

Paul  used  to  put  him  to  bed  when  he  was 
"overcome"  (that  was  the  way  Paul  expressed  it) ; 
and  the  next  morning  he  would  come  down-stairs, 
sheepish  and  ashamed,  to  look  for  Eunice.  Some 
times  he  found  her  awaiting  him  in  the  parlor, 
where  on  the  ceiling  the  reflection  of  the  water 
slipping  smoothly  over  the  dam  played  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth,  like  unheard  music.  His 
apologies  were  listened  to  in  grave  silence. 

"A  beast  would  not  treat  thee  as  I  do,"  he  would 
protest;  "why  can't  I  remember  that?  Why  am 
I  lower  than  a  beast?" 

"Because,"  she  explained  once,  "thee  forgets 
that  thee  is  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels." 

Instantly  Peter's  remorse  changed  to  embar 
rassment;  he  could  have  borne  reproaches,  but 
the  slightest  reference  to  things  of  the  soul  closed 
his  lips.  "I'll  take  only  one  glass  after  this,"  he 
told  her,  shortly.  He  knew  what  he  was:  a  poor 
devil,  not  worthy  to  unloose  the  latchet  of  her 
shoes!  But  at  least  he  was  no  hypocrite:  he 
would  not  talk  religion! 

After  such  a  scene  as  this  there  would  be  weeks 
of  only  one  glass.  Once,  after  many  glasses,  he 
came  home  at  dawn  and  knelt  at  her  chaste  knee, 

233 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

weeping  like  a  bad  child.  (It  never  occurred  to 
him  to  conceal  anything  from  her.  "I  would  as 
soon  try  to  have  a  secret  from  the  Creator,"  he 
told  himself.)  His  confession  did  not  shake  her 
love.  Again  her  silence,  her  cool  hands  on  his 
hot  face,  her  calm  eyes  plumbing  his  shame  and 
grossness  with  patience  and  pity — and  forgiveness ! 

"How  can  thee  forgive  this?  I  never  forgive 
anything,  yet  I  am  a  sinner!"  He  looked  at  her  in 
amazement.  "Thee  doesn't  seem  to  feel  that  I've 
injured  thee!"  he  said  with  awe;  for  he  never 
recognized  the  mother  in  her,  the  mother,  who 
can  forgive  always!  To  him  this  exquisite  woman 
was  all  wife — and  the  wife  forgives  only  sometimes. 

"How  can  I  stop  to  feel  that  thee  injures  me? 
Thee  has  injured  thyself,"  she  grieved  over  him, 
pressing  his  shamed  face  against  her  breast;  "it  is 
that  which  pierces  my  heart." 

He  never  doubted  the  miracle  of  her  forgive 
ness  for  anything  he  might  do,  and  alas!  he — 
but  we  need  not  go  into  that.  "If  she  forgives 
him,  whose  business  is  it?"  said  Willy  King.  The 
doctor  knew  the  quality  of  Eunice's  forgiveness; 
for  the  time  came  when  he  saw  poor  Betsey  Dar 
ling  go  down  into  the  shadows,  clinging  to  that 
quiet  hand — clinging  to  it  even  when  the  cold 
waters  of  the  River  rose  about  her  shrinking  feet. 

"She  can  forgive  earth  its  earthiness,"  Peter 
said,  when  his  old  friend  told  him  of  that  solemn 
hour;  "the  body  doesn't  count  much  with  Eunice. 
William,  I'm  not  worthy  of  her!" 

234 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

"Why,  of  course  you're  not!"  the  doctor  agreed; 
"has  that  just  struck  you?" 

"If  I  get  to  heaven,  it  will  be  by  holding  on  to 
her  petticoats,"  Peter  said. 

He  had  to  hold  very  tightly  to  those  Quaker 
petticoats  when  the  war  broke  out.  He  was  a 
raving,  stamping  Union  man — yet  he  did  not 
enlist!  It  was  the  wife,  rather  than  the  mother, 
who  knew  what  this  cost  him.  Neither  did  Paul 
enlist,  though  he  tried  to  by  leaving  off  his  glass 
es  when  he  went  to  the  recruiting-office.  "But 
he  couldn't  tell  herring  from  cheese  without 
spectacles,"  Peter  said,  with  good-humored  con 
tempt. 

"Paul  isn't  big  enough  for  a  target,"  he  told 
William  King  once,  "but  he's  brave — what  there 
is  of  him;  I've  seen*  him  face  the  guns!  You 
know?  Poor  old  Betsey!" 

Peter,  for  Eunice's  conscience'  sake,  was  brave 
enough  to  stay  at  home — and  people  whose  mem 
ories  go  back  to  the  sixties  will  know  what  cour 
age  it  took  to  do  that !  Instead  of  enlisting,  he  ran 
again  for  Congress,  and  sat  doggedly  at  his  desk 
with  his  hands  itching  to  hold  a  gun.  There  was  a 
story  of  his  being  twitted  upon  preserving  a  whole 
skin  when  other  men  stood  up  to  be  shot  at.  ... 

"I  know  you  help  darkies  across  the  border," 
a  man  flung  at  him  once  over  the  dinner-table  in 
the  old  Riggs  House  in  Washington;  "but  I  should 
think  a  man  of  your  heft  might  strike  a  blow  for 
the  flag!" 

16  235 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Peter  Walton  reddened  to  his  ears,  and  his 
fingers  tightened  on  his  tumbler  of  whisky;  but 
he  spoke  very  quietly:  "Sir,  in  deference  to  the 
principles  of  a  lady,  I  serve  my  country  with  my 
head  instead  of  my  hands." 

A  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  sneered: 
"One  of  these  sentimental  Yankee  females,  I 
suppose,  who  like  to  fuss  over  a  big  nig — "  His 
teeth  bit  off  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Walton  had 
flung  the  whisky  into  his  face,  and  followed  it  in 
a  sliding  jump  across  the  table,  table-cloth,  dishes, 
bottles,  crumpling  and  flying  before  his  feet!  He 
had  his  hand  on  the  man's  throat  before  the 
startled  company  knew  just  what  had  happened. 
As,  swearing  and  stuttering,  he  was  pulled  away 
from  his  prey  he  stammered  out: 

"I  don't  fight — I'm  a  Quaker!  Let  me  get  hold 
of  him — I'll  teach  him  to  speak  of  a  white  woman 
in  the  same  breath  with —  I  don't  fight!  I'm  a 
Quaker!" 

in 

The  second  volume  of  Peter's  biography  was 
full  of  the  happiness  of  monotony.  Nothing  hap 
pened  but  peace.  The  war  was  over,  and  life  in 
the  Waltons'  silent  house,  that  thrilled  faintly 
to  the  jarring  tumble  of  the  water  breaking  into 
foam  below  the  dam,  was  as  serene  as  the  soul  of 
the  saintly  woman  who  was  Peter's  wife.  He  was 
beaten  at  the  polls  in  the  early  seventies,  and 
went  back  to  the  warehouse,  where  Paul,  too  busy 

236 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

to  read  the  newspapers,  had  been  losing  money 
for  the  last  eight  or  ten  years. 

When  Peter  burst  in  again,  his  little  old  brother 
blew  about  before  him  like  a  dead  leaf.  Peter 
would  not  have  slighted  Paul  for  the  world,  but 
the  sheer  pressure  of  his  arrogant  energy  shoul 
dered  the  senior  partner  to  the  wall  and  turned  the 
tide  of  failure.  The  brothers  used  to  go  to  the 
warehouse  together  every  morning,  but  now  Paul 
read  the  paper.  Peter  wrote  the  letters,  and 
bawled  the  orders,  and  roared  and  raged  when 
people  were  slow  in  carrying  them  out. 

In  the  evening  they  rode  home  together  again, 
— but  as  soon  as  they  entered  the  house,  Peter 
knew  his  place. 

"I  always  expect  to  hear  Eunice  say  'Down 
charge!'  to  you,  Pete,"  Dr.  King  used  to  declare, 
chuckling.  Certainly  the  loud  voice  fell  to  match 
the  "thee"  and  "thou"  of  his  address.  In  the 
evening  the  brothers  played  backgammon  until 
they  both  almost  went  to  sleep.  .  .  . 

So,  tranquilly,  one  by  one,  the  leaves  of  the 
second  volume  were  turned.  The  years  passed, 
and  the  husband  and  wife  drew  nearer  the  end 
of  the  book.  Apparently  they  never  thought  of 
"Finis."  At  least  Peter  never  thought  of  it.  Once, 
when  he  built  a  greenhouse  for  Eunice,  taking  in 
finite  pains  in  regard  to  its  position — "it  must  be 
so  I  can  put  an  extension  to  it  when  she  wants 
a  bigger  place  for  her  flowers,"  he  said; — Mrs. 
Walton  smiled. 

237 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"To  hear  Peter  talk,  thee'd  think  I  was  go 
ing  to  live  for  ever,"  she  told  her  brother-in- 
law. 

"I'll  be  satisfied  if  thee -lives  as  long  as  I  do," 
Peter  said. 

A  shadow  fell  across  her  face,  and  she  sighed. 
It  was  after  dinner,  on  Sunday,  and  the  three 
Waltons  were  sitting  down-stairs  in  the  wide  hall, 
that  was  darkened  by  the  great  portico  which 
roofed  the  second-story  windows.  Summer  blazed 
up  to  the  cool  thresholds  of  the  open  doors  at  each 
end  of  the  hall.  The  curving  gleam  of  water  on 
the  edge  of  the  dam  flashed  sometimes  through 
the  blossoming  locust-trees  in  front  of  the  house; 
at  the  back,  was  the  green  tunnel  of  the  grape- 
arbor,  its  mossy  flagstones  checkered  with  sun 
shine;  then  blue  sky  and  white  clouds  and  a 
clover-field  murmurous  with  bees. 

Peter,  his  coat  off,  his  collar  open  at  the  throat, 
a  silver  tumbler  of  sangaree  beside  him,  fanned 
himself  violently,  mopped  his  forehead,  and  voci 
ferated  at  the  weather.  Paul's  frock-coat  was 
decorously  buttoned  over  a  puce-colored  waistcoat, 
but  even  his  sense  of  propriety  could  not  protect 
his  wilting  collar.  Eunice,  in  a  lavender  cross- 
barred  muslin  with  tight  sleeves  down  to  her  deli 
cate  wrists,  a  white  kerchief  over  her  shoulders, 
sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  enduring  the 
discomfort  with  entire  patience. 

"Suffering  snakes!  how  hot  it  is!"  said  Peter; 
"if  thee  wasn't  here,  Eunice,  I  would  be  more 

238 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

specific.  Paul,  get  the  backgammon-board!  I've 
got  to  do  something,  or  I'll  burst!" 

"Good  idea,"  said  Paul;  he  brought  the  old 
red  board  marked  " History  of  England,*'  and  for 
half  an  hour  his  stupid  moves  gave  his  brother 
the  chance  to  let  off  steam.  Suddenly  Peter  shut 
the  board  with  a  slam  that  scared  the  swallows, 
twittering  on  the  rafters  of  the  porch  roof. 

"Good  Lord,  Paul!  Why  did  you  move  that 
column  on  your  double  trays?  I  could  whip  you 
with  my  eyes  shut,  my  boy." 

"So  you  could,"  Paul  agreed,  mildly.  "Eunice, 
I  would  suggest  a  fan.  No?  Well,  I'm  going  to 
have  a  look  at  the  horses."  He  got  up  and  saun 
tered  off  to  the  stable,  and  Peter,  with  nothing  to 
do,  sat  still,  fanning  and  perspiring. 

"Paul  is  a  good  fellow,"  he  told  his  wife;  "and 
he  has  a  lot  of  spunk — thee  remembers?  But  it's 
a  pity  the  Lord  didn't  give  him  brains.  Eunice! 
It  gets  hotter  every  minute.  Doesn't  thee  feel  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Doesn't  thee  want  a  fan?" 

"No." 

"Suppose  I  fan  thee?" 

"If  thee  pleases." 

With  a  good  deal  of  puffing  he  edged  his  chair 
closer  to  hers  and  began  to  saw  the  air  with  great 
energy.  Eunice  smiled  at  him. 

"Thee  takes  good  care  of  me,"  she  said.  Then 
abruptly,  she  put  her  hands  over  her  face,  and 
cried  out,  in  a  sort  of  wail:  "Oh,  if  God  had  but 

239 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

given  us  children!"  Peter's  fan  paused  in  mid 
air;  he  stared  at  her,  his  lips  falling  apart  with 
astonishment.  "Thee  would  have  had  some  one 
to  care  for  thee  when  I  am  gone,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper. 

The  poignancy  of  such  a  cry  from  such  serene 
lips  was  almost  terrifying. 

"What  on  earth  is  thee— is  thee  talking  about!" 
Peter  stammered. 

But  the  gust  of  passion  was  gone;  the  fear — if 
it  was  a  fear— calmed  into  her  usual  calm  speech. 
"Thee  knows  one  or  the  other  of  us  must  go  first. 
I  hope  it  may  be  thee.  If  it  is  I,  I  hope  thee  will 
marry  again." 

"Eunice!  Stop!  I  don't  like— that  sort  of 
talk.  Besides,  we  shall  both  live  for  years.  You're 
only^  fifty-five.  And— and  I  won't  let  you  go." 
In  his  panic  he  lapsed  back  to  the  speech  natural 
to  him.  "If  you  do,"  he  said,  loudly,  "by  God 
I'll  follow  you!" 

She  laid  a  quiet  hand  on  his.  "Peter,  we  each 
must  go  in  the  path  ordained  for  us  from  the  be 
ginning.  Be  still." 

And  immediately  the  winds  and  the  waves  of 
that  violent  and  loving  heart  obeyed  her.  He 
was  still.  But  that  night  he  hardly  slept.  Some 
how,  it  was  not  as  easy  as  usual  to  adjust  the  facts 
of  life  to  that  blindness  to  the  future  which  was 
necessary  to  his  peace  of  mind.  Yet  the  habit 
of  years  helped  him  to  do  it,  and  by  the  next 
morning  he  was  full  of  plans  for  her  pleasure  that 

240 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

challenged  Time!  She  must  have  this,  she  must 
have  that;  a  new  porch  at  the  back  of  the  house; 
a  bigger  garden.  "I  wish  thee  wore  jewelry/'  he 
said,  wistfully, — which  made  her  smile. 

But  she  did  not  speak  to  him  again  of  the  In 
exorable  Day,  and  Peter  having  made  himself 
believe  what  was  necessary  to  his  comfort,  was 
confident  that  her  reference  to  it  was  only  a  pass 
ing  mood.  "She  was  morbid,"  he  said;  "she  has 
forgotten  it  by  this  time.  As  for  me,  I  never  think 
of  such  things!  It's  foolish." 

So  he  went  on  making  plans  that  defied  the 
future;  he  set  out  a  row  of  arbor-vitaes  on  the 
north  side  of  the  garden.  "In  twenty  years  they'll 
make  a  splendid  windbreak  for  thee,"  he  said. 
And  again  the  shadow  fell  across  her  face.  It  was 
always  a  peaceful  face.  Once  or  twice,  lately,  it 
seemed  as  if  she  tried  to  speak  to  him  of  something 
under  the  peace,  but  he  shied  away  from  any  ap 
proach  to  things  below  the  surface,  telling  him 
self  that  he  did  not  know  at  what  she  hinted. 

Then  the  blow  fell.  ...  It  was  only  a  few 
weeks  later,  on  a  serene  July  morning,  that  she 
was  taken  ill.  It  was  very  sharp,  very  terrify 
ing,  very  short.  Then,  while  they  watched  her, 
scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  the  flame  of  Life, 
fluttering  and  blowing,  rose  again,  and  burned 
steadily  in  her  quiet  eyes. 

"She  is  out  of  danger,"  William  King  said, 
when  he  left  her  room  and  went  down-stairs  into 
the  dining-room  with  Peter,  who  was  still  shak- 

241 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

ing  so  that  he  could  hardly  hold  the  decanter 
steady  enough  to  give  the  doctor  a  glass  of  wine. 
"It's  her  heart,"  Willy  said;  "I've  been  afraid  of 
it  for  some  time."  His  face  was  wrung  with 
fatigue  and  pity. 

"But  she's  out  of  danger?  You  said  she  was 
out  of  danger!" 

"Yes;    at  this  moment." 

"She — she  won't  ever  have  another  attack?" 

"I  hope  not;   but,  of  course — " 

"You  don't  think  she  will?"  the  terrified  hus 
band  entreated. 

"She  may  not,"  William  said,  reassuringly. 

"You  think  she  won't?"  Peter  gasped. 

"Well,  we'll  do  all  we  can  to  prevent  it,"  the 
doctor  said;  his  voice  was  professionally  cheerful. 

"Then  you  are  not  anxious  about  her — thank 
God!"  Peter  said.  He  drew  a  long  breath  of  re 
lief,  and  the  water  stood  in  his  eyes.  "William, 
I  felt  the  life  run  out  of  me  this  morning  before 
you  came!  It  seemed  to  go  out  of  my  knees." 

His  friend  nodded.    "I  was  scared  myself." 

"But  you're  not  scared  now?"  Peter  said,  fol 
lowing  him  down  to  the  gate,  where  the  doctor's 
mare  had  been  stamping  and  switching  at  the 
flies  for  the  last  two  hours.  "You  just  said  you 
weren't  anxious,"  he  insisted,  fiercely;  "you  said 
she  wasn't  in  any  danger  now!"  He  had  begun  to 
tremble  again. 

"Why,  I  wouldn't  go  away  if  she  were  in  dan 
ger,  now,"  Willy  said,  honestly  enough,  and 

242 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

climbed  into  his  muddy  old  buggy.  "But  I  don't 
like  it,  Jinny,"  he  told  his  mare,  as  they  jogged 
along  towards  Old  Chester;  "I  don't  like  it!" 

Peter  went  back  to  the  house  exultantly.  "Will 
iam  isn't  in  the  least  anxious  about  her,"  he  said, 
loudly.  Paul,  who  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
hall,  silently  followed  him  to  the  sideboard  in 
the  dining-room.  Peter's  hand  was  still  shaking 
so  that  the  silver  collar  around  the  neck  of  the 
old  cut-glass  decanter  clattered  faintly. 

"Peter,"  Paul  said,  his  spectacles  gleaming  po 
litely,  "I  would  suggest  that  you  refrain." 

"God,  man!  I've  got  to  have  a  drink.  I'm 
shaken  to  pieces,"  Peter  said.  "It  is  all  right  now, 
but  I  thought— I  thought  I'd  lost  her." 

"She  is  reposing  at  present?" 

"Yes;  oh  yes;  she  is  perfectly  well  now.  And 
William  says  she'll  never  have  another  attack; 
but—  He  stopped  and  drank  some  whisky,  the 
tumbler,  in  his  trembling  hand,  clicking  against 
his  teeth.  Paul  seemed  about  to  speak,  but 
closed  his  lips. 

"You  see,"  Peter  burst  out,  "it  came  over 
me,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  there  were  so  many 
things  we  hadn't  talked  about,  she  and  I.  I 
didn't  know  just  how  she  felt  about  —  about 
afterwards." 

He  spoke  for  the  relief  of  speaking,  not  with 
any  thought  that  Paul  might  reply. 

"She'll  go  to  heaven,  if  there  is  a  heaven !  But 
I — what  about  me?  Maybe  I  couldn't  find  my 

243 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

way  in.  It  came  over  me,  all  of  a  sudden,  that 
we'd  never  talked  about — about  that.  She  never 
told  me  just  how  things  were.  And  I  don't 
know.  I  always  meant  to  ask  her  what  I  must 
believe,  but — I  couldn't.  Couldn't  speak  of  it, 
somehow.  And  now — /  don't  know.11  His  voice 
was  broken  with  terror;  he  had  apparently  for 
gotten  his  brother's  presence.  "As  soon  as  she 
gets  well  I'll  ask  her.  .  .  .  Not  that  there's  any 
hurry—  he  interrupted  himself,  "we're  both 
going  to  live  for  years!" 

He  turned  as  if  to  pour  out  some  more  whisky, 
but  Paul  shoved  the  decanter  away  from  him. 

"I  would  suggest  that  you  should  go  up-stairs 
and  sit  with  her,"  he  said. 

"I'm  just  going.  You  tell  those  females  in  the 
kitchen  to  make  a  lot  of  jelly  and  beef  tea  and 
stuff  for  her." 

Paul  nodded.     "Good  idea." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  Peter  said,  with  a  long 
breath  of  relief,  "that  business  this  morning 
pretty  well  knocked  me  over — but  William  has 
no  anxiety  whatever,"  he  added,  quickly. 

Paul  winced.     "He  didn't  say  just  that." 

Peter  looked  at  him  angrily.  "He  did!"  he 
said,  and  turned  and  went  hurriedly  up-stairs. 
His  entrance  into  the  quiet  room  was  like  a  gust 
of  fresh  wind. 

He  found  a  maid  with  his  wife,  and  banished 
her  noisily.  "I'll  take  care  of  Mrs.  Walton!  You 
go  and  make  wine  jelly  for  her!" 

244 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

When  the  woman  had  gone  he  was  full  of 
the  pathetic  and  useless  services  of  an  anxious 
man.  Didn't  Eunice  want  a  hot  brick  at  her  feet  ? 
Did  she  feel  a  draught  from  the  window  ?  He  was 
sure  there  was  a  draught!  Why  hadn't  that  fool 
girl  shut  the  window?  She  looked  a  little  warm; 
why  hadn't  Margaret  had  the  sense  to  fan  her? 
Where  was  there  a  fan?  Well,  this  newspaper 
would  do.  Oughtn't  she  to  have  a  drink  of  water? 
— or  a  glass  of  port? 

She  smiled,  silently,  watching  him  with  tender 
eyes,  and  bearing  with  heavenly  patience  the 
crackling  wave  of  the  newspaper. 

"William  says  thee'll  never  have  another  at 
tack,"  he  reassured  her,  boisterously;  "but  thee 
did  give  me  a  scare,  Eunice!" 

She  smiled  again,  and  tried  to  say  (she  was  so 
very  weak!)  she  "was  .  .  .  sorry." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence;  although  just  for 
a  minute  I  was  anxious.  Unnecessarily  so,  of 
course.  But,  you  see,  the  fact  was — "  he  paused, 
his  voice  was  suddenly  anguished;  "it  came  over 
me,  Eunice,  that  I  didn't  just  know,  I  hadn't 
thought  to — to  ask  thee,  what  we  believed  about 
—I  mean  just  what  would  happen,  if — if  anything 
happened  to  either  of  us."  Abrupt  tears  fell  down 
his  face.  "Thee  never  told  me,"  he  reproached 
her,  with  a  sort  of  sob,  "what  I  believed,  or  what 
I  was  to  do,  if  .  .  .  "  he  seemed  like  a  frightened 
child;  "Of  course,  it's  all  right  now;  William  has 
no  anxiety  about  thee!  Only,  for  a  minute,  I — " 

245 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

His  breath  caught  in  his  throat  and  he  hid  his 
face  in  the  newspaper;  then  he  laughed;  "I'm  a 
fool!" 

"Peter  ...  Be  still." 

He  swallowed  hard,  and  began  to  wave  the 
crumpled  paper  over  her  head.  But  he  was 
still.  Suddenly  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  put  one 
of  those  new  bay-windows  on  the  parlor  for  thee, 
Eunice." 

"Peter  .  .  .  Who  will  .  .  .  take  care  of  thee?" 

It  was  only  a  whisper,  so  he  could  make  him 
self  believe  that  he  had  not  heard  it,  and  get  up 
and  bustle  about,  bursting  into  noisy  abjurations 
of  Margaret  because  there  was  no  extra  blanket 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "Donkey!  I'll  go  and 
get  a  comforter,  and — 

"Too  warm.  .  .  .  Don't." 

So  he  sat  down;  then  bent  over  and  kissed  the 
hand — that  frail,  maternal  hand! — that  lay  so 
quietly  on  the  sheet. 

"Peter,  listen.  If  ...  I  go  ...  I  want  thee  .  .  . 
marry  again." 

Then  he  made  no  pretense.  "Never!  What, 
put  any  woman  into  your  place?  Never." 

"Thee  must.  Thee  must."  Her  eyes  were  full 
of  despairing  understanding  of  him;  he  flung  his 
poor,  pitiful  truth  back  to  them: 

"I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  have  a  wife.  .  .  .  Be 
sides — there  are  plenty  of  women.  .  .  .  But  no 
wife!  I  won't  marry;  I  won't!  Don't  ask  me  to, 
Eunice.  Don't!  I  couldn't." 

246 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

She  turned  her  head  away.  "My  poor  Peter," 
she  said. 

Peter,  slipping  to  his  knees,  hid  his  face  in  the 
bedclothes;  she  put  her  hand  on  his  head,  and 
stroked  his  hair.  He  heard  her  sigh.  He  set  his 
teeth,  wiped  his  eyes  furtively  on  a  corner  of  the 
sheet,  and  getting  up,  began  to  wave  the  news 
paper  vigorously.  "Now  stop  talking,"  he  said, 
with  loud  cheerfulness;  "thee's  perfectly  well,  so 
there's  no  use  thinking  about — things  like  that. 
Besides,  thee  ought  to  sleep.  Thee  mustn't  talk. 
I'll  talk  to  thee.  Willy  King  says  his  strawberries 
are  still  bearing — " 

"Go  down  and  play  backgammon  with  Paul," 
she  said;  "I'm  quite  comfortable." 

Her  voice  was  so  much  stronger  that  his  heart 
bounded  with  joy.  "We'll  play  up  here,  and  then 
thee  can  speak  if  thee  wants  anything.  Paul!" 
he  shouted;  "come  up-stairs,  and  bring  the  back 
gammon-board.  Eunice  wants  us  to  play  up 
here."  He  left  her — quivering  a  little  from  the 
jar  of  his  voice — long  enough  to  meet  his  brother 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  whisper,  loudly, 
"She  won't  know  we're  anxious  if  she  sees  us 
playing." 

Then  he  went  back  and  tucked  the  sheet  tight 
ly  under  her  shoulders.  "Go  to  sleep!  Thee 
mustn't  talk.  Paul  and  I'll  sit  here  and  play." 

She  smiled,  loosened  the  sheet  furtively,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Her  husband  and  brother  sat  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  whispering  to  each  other  now 

247 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

and  then,  and  throwing  the  dice  into  the  palms 
of  their  hands  so  that  the  rattle  should  not  dis 
turb  her. 

The  day  was  falling  into  the  quiet  afternoon. 
Outside  Eunice's  window,  the  locust -leaves  moved 
a  little,  and  some  swallows,  flying  back  and  forth 
with  mud  for  the  nest  they  were  building  under 
the  roof  of  the  portico,  perched  on  the  scroll  of 
a  pillar  and  scolded  each  other;  the  muffled 
noises  of  the  game  rose,  and  fell,  and  rose  again, 
but  the  ceaseless  plunge  and  clamor  of  the  water 
folded  all  the  little  noises  into  one  pervasive 
sound,  full,  deep,  rhythmical,  an  Earth  lullaby 
for  tired  Life. 

By  and  by  Eunice  sank  into  the  harmony,  and 
slept.  Peter,  tiptoeing  clumsily  over  to  look  at 
her,  saw  the  color  flooding  back  into  her  face. 

"We  can  go  down-stairs,"  he  whispered,  loudly, 
to  Paul;  "she's  perfectly  well  now.  But  I'll  send 
one  of  the  girls  up  to  sit  here." 


IV 

She  slept  most  of  the  afternoon,  and  woke 
about  five,  so  bright  and  strong  that  Peter  forgot 
that  he  had  ever  been  anxious. 

"Come  out  on  the  porch  and  smoke,"  he  told 
his  brother;  "Ellen  and  Margaret  will  sit  with  her 
for  a  while." 

"Good  idea,"  Paul  murmured. 

They  put  their  chairs  directly  beneath  Eunice's 
248 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

windows;  the  swallows,  building  under  the  porch 
roof,  were  still  now,  and  the  noise  of  the  dam  was 
hushed,  for  the  evening  wind  was  carrying  the 
sound  of  the  falling  waters  to  the  other  side  of 
the  river.  It  was  so  peaceful  that  they  could  hear 
the  voices  of  the  women  in  the  room  above  them, 
and  sometimes  a  little  laugh — that  fluttered  laugh 
which  means  release  from  terror. 

"Those  girls  adore  her,"  Peter  said. 

"Everybody  does,"  said  Paul. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  then  Peter  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and  threw  up  his  arms  with  a  gesture 
of  relief.  "What  a  day!"  he  said;  "Paul,  I've  got 
to  go  first.  This  proves  it.  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
Yes;  she's  got  to  let  me  go  first." 

"It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  cannot  arrange 
such  matters,"  Paul  said,  his  spectacles  gleaming 
with  sympathy. 

Peter  was  not  listening.  "I  tell  you  what!"  he 
burst  out,  "I'm  going  to  talk  about — things,  with 
her.  You  can  bet  your  boots  on  that!  I  got  a 
scare  at  my  own  ignorance  this  morning.  I  told 
her  so.  Yes;  there's  no  use  putting — things — 
you  know  what  I  mean?  behind  your  back." 

His  brother  nodded. 

"I  suppose  you've  got  it  all  cut  and  dried?" 
Peter  said,  carelessly. 

"I  just  believe  what  everybody  else  does." 

"Well,  I  shall  believe  what  she  does.  It  will 
be  all  right  after  this.  Eunice  will  tell  me." 

"Dr.  Lavendar  would  tell  you." 
249 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

' '  Oh,  well,  that's  his  business,  you  know.  With 
all  respect  to  the  cloth,  I'd  rather  have  Eunice's 
ideas.  However,  we  needn't  talk  about  it,  now. 
Everything  is  all  right.  Paul,  what  do  you  think 
of  building  a  little  summer-house  for  her  over 
by  the  dam?"  He  was  glad  to  have  Paul  to  talk 
to;  talking  kept  him  from  examining  too  closely 
his  certainty  that  all  was  well.  "She's  absolutely 
all  right,"  he  declared.  "Yes;  I'm  going  to  build 
a  summer-house  for  her.  I  have  an  idea  of  a 
Chinese  pagoda  Got  a  pencil?  Here,  I'll  draw 
it  on  this  envelope.  Like  this,  you  see — " 
"Good  idea,"  Paul  said. 

"I  guess  I'll  take  her  to  Philadelphia  for  a  little 
trip,"  Peter  ruminated;  "might  as  well  see  an 
other  doctor,  too.  William's  all  right  in  ordi 
nary  things,  like  that  attack  this  morning.  I 
remember  William  when  we  were  both  put  into 
breeches.  You  kind  of  don't  have  much  confi 
dence  in  a  man  when  you  remember  him  that 
way?  He's  too  much  like  yourself.  I  want  some 
real  doctor  to  advise  her  about  food,  and  all 
that  kind  of  thing.  I  think  she  ought  to  take 
some  kind  of  tonic;  Willy  doesn't  give  enough 
medicine.  He  does  as  well  as  he  knows  how, 
but—" 

"Oh—  Oh — "  A  voice  shrilled  down  from  the 
open  window  above  them. 

Then  another  voice:    "Run!    The  doctor- 
There  were  flying  feet  on  the  stairs.      "Mr. 

Walton—" 

250 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

Even  as  the  two  men  rushed  into  the  house, 
they  heard  a  scream: 
"She's  dead—" 

They  jostled  each  other  on  the  staircase,  and 
somehow  Paul  was  first— it  seemed  as  if  Peter's 
feet  were  made  of  lead.  At  the  door  of  her  room, 
the  sweat  beading  on  his  forehead  from  the  effort 
to  lift  those  heavy  feet,  he  reeled  and  lurched 
against  the  wall;  then  stood,  transfixed,  staring. 
It  was  Paul  who  ran  to  her  bedside,  called  her 
name,  poured  out  a  little  brandy  and  held  it  to 
her  mouth.  Her  delicate  head  fell  to  one  side, 
and  the  brandy  trickled  from  her  parted  lips. 
Peter,  his  hand  over  his  mouth,  still  leaned 
against  the  frame  of  the  door,  gaping  at  his 
brother,  and  at  the  weeping  women.  Under  his 
breath  he  said,  thickly,  "No,  no,  no." 

Paul,  laying  the  still  figure  back  on  the  pillows, 
came  over  to  him,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  trying  to  speak.  Peter  was  motionless,  his 
face  rigid.  Through  the  open  window,  rising  and 
falling  with  the  evening  wind,  came  the  sound  of 
many  waters;  the  house  thrilled  faintly,  like  the 
thrilling  of  a  muted  harp-string.  No  one  spoke. 
Then  Peter  said,  in  a  loud  whisper:  "There's 
some  mistake!" 

Paul,  weeping,  shook  his  head.  "Look,"  he 
said,  and  led  him,  almost  pushed  him,  to  the  bed 
side.  As  Peter  stood  there,  agape,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  calm  face,  Paul  gave  hurried,  frightened 
orders:  "Saddle  a  horse!  Bring  the  doctor!  In- 
17  25i 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

stantly!"  Then  turned  back  to  the  silent  man, 
still  standing  there,  looking  at  the  eternal  silence 
before  him.  .  .  . 

They  stayed  beside  her  until  William  King  came, 
Peter  quite  speechless,  except  that  he  said  once, 
dully,  "It's  a  mistake — a  mistake."  And  again: 
"I  don't  believe  it." 

There  was  nothing  for  the  doctor  to  do.  She 
had  gone. 

"Where?"  Peter  said  in  a  whisper. 

When  William  said,  brokenly,  something  of 
heaven,  he  looked  at  him,  blankly;  then  turned 
away,  saying,  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Get  me  some  whisky!" 

Dr.  King  nodded.     "Yes;    let  him  have  it." 


It  was  after  twelve  o'clock  before  the  brothers 
were  alone;  then,  reluctantly,  William  King  went 
home. 

"There's  nothing  more  I  can  do,"  he  told  Paul. 
"I  think  he  has  stopped  walking  about.  I  left 
him  sitting  down.  Get  him  to  take  that  medicine 
I  put  in  your  room,  if  you  can.  He  knocked  the 
glass  out  of  my  hand  when  I  gave  it  to  him.  But 
maybe  he'll  listen  to  you.  I  wish  Dr.  Lavendar 
was  at  home!" 

When  Paul  went  up-stairs  to  that  quiet  room, 
he  found  Peter  standing  with  one  foot  on  the 

252 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

rung  of  a  chair,  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  his  chin 
on  his  clenched  hand. 

"Send  those  women  away,"  he  said. 

"Good  idea,"  Paul  said,  and  signed  to  Ellen 
and  Margaret,  who  were  watching  the  quiet 
figure  on  the  bed. 

When  they  had  gone,  Peter,  his  chin  still  resting 
on  his  hand,  looked  at  his  brother,  and  motioned 
with  his  head  towards  the  door. 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  Peter." 

Apparently  he  was  not  heard. 

"Peter,  won't  you  come  into  my  room  and  go 

to  bed?" 

Silence.  Peter  was  staring  at  the  white  still 
ness  of  the  covering  sheet.  Down  in  the  front  hall 
the  clock  struck  one.  Peter  stood  upright,  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  seemed  to  brace  himself  as  if 
for  some  tremendous  effort  of  will;  then,  loudly: 
"Eunice!" 

Silence;    except  for  the  water,  falling— falling 
— falling.     And  again: 
" Eunice  .  .  .   f" 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  lips,  as  though  even 
his  own  breathing  must  not  break  in  upon  his  lis 
tening.  But  she  did  not  answer.  She,  who  had 
answered  even  his  thoughts  for  all  these  years, 
was  deaf  to  that  orphaned  cry!  The  night  wind, 
hesitating,  entering,  flagging,  made  the  sheet  wa 
ver;  the  flame  of  the  lamp  shivered  and  Peter's 
listening  shadow  moved,  monstrous,  shapeless, 
across  the  bed  and  over  the  ceiling. 

253 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

Silence.  .  .  . 

Stumbling  back  into  a  chair,  he  flung  up  his 
arms,  and  then  his  head  sank  into  his  hands. 
After  a  long  while  he  lifted  himself.  " She's 
dead,"  he  said.  He  looked  at  his  brother,  blink 
ing,  as  though  awakening  from  a  stupor:  "You 
here?  William  gone?" 

"Yes;    there  was  nothing  he  could — " 

"Of  course  not.    She's  dead.    Now  you  go,  too." 

"I  am  going  to  stay  with  you,  Peter." 

"I  don't  want  you.     Go." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Paul  saw,  on  the 
old  red  backgammon-board,  which  was  still  lying 
on  the  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  a  pistol-case. 
His  heart  stood  still.  Peter,  following  his  hor 
rified  eyes,  nodded  impatiently. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Peter,  for  God's—" 

"I'm  going  after  her.  William  stayed,  and 
then  those  women  came  in.  Now  you're  here. 
Why  can't  I  be  alone  a  minute?  I  ought  to  have 
gone  at  once — but  I  wasn't  sure — I  wanted  to 
call  her." 

Paul  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "You  are 
out  of  your  mind!  Come  into  my  room,  away 
from — from —  You'll  come  to  your  senses  if 
you  will  just  get  out  of  this  room." 

"I  am  in  my  senses  now.  I'm  going  to  follow 
her.  Can't  you  understand  me?  I'm  going  after 
her!  They've  all  interrupted  me—"  He  had 
forgotten  Paul's  presence  and  was  talking  rapidly 

254 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

to  himself.  "William  stayed  for  hours.  I  couldn't 
get  rid  of  him.  He  wanted  to  give  me  an  opiate. 
An  opiate!— to-night,  of  all  nights!  As  if  I  could 
take  the  time  to  sleep!  I  mustn't  lost  another 
minute;  not  a  minute."  He  was  mumbling  so 
that  Paul  could  hardly  hear  him.  "She's  started, 
and  I  must  catch  up  to  her.  I'm  late  now;  very 
late!" 

Paul  put  a  shaking  hand  on  the  pistol-case. 
"It  would  be  a  sin — " 

Peter  looked  at  him  for  an  astonished  moment. 
"You?"  he  said;  "I  keep  forgetting  you  are  here. 
Don't  talk  religion.  This  is  no  time  for  religion! 
I'd  commit  every  sin  on  earth  to  be  with  her! 
Give  me  that  case." 

He  leaped  at  his  brother,  and  a  board  in  the 
floor  creaked  and  sagged  under  his  feet;  the 
lamp  on  the  bureau  shook,  and  the  shadows 
lurched  about  the  room.  Paul,  holding  the  pistol- 
case  behind  him,  fended  him  off  with  a  bent 
elbow. 

"Listen;    it  is  cowardly!" 

"Give  it  to  me." 

"Eunice  would  say  it  was  wicked!" 

For  one  instant  her  name  checked  him.  Then 
he  nodded  his  head.  "But  she'll  forgive  me. 
She's  always  forgiving  me!  And  when  she  sees 
me  coming,  just  as  fast  as  I  can,  she'll—  Oh,  I'm 
late,  I'm  late!  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  her  as 
soon  as  I  catch  up  to  her.  I  promise  you  I  will. 
Let  me  go!" 

2SS 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"He  is  mad,"  Paul  was  saying  to  himself. 
"How  can  I  get  word  to  William?" 

He  could  not  get  word  to  any  one.  To  attempt 
to  leave  the  room,  taking  the  pistol-case  with 
him,  was  to  invite  a  struggle,  there,  in  that  sacred 
presence!  And  to  leave  the  pistols— Paul  shook 
with  terror.  What  could  he  say?  Only  the  most 
commonplace  words  came  stammering  to  his  lips. 

"She's  seven  hours  ahead  of  you.  You  can't 
catch  up  to  her!" 

Peter  stopped  short,  his  crazy  face  suddenly 
keenly  reasonable. 

"Besides,  how  do  you  know  which  way  she's 
gone?"  Paul  argued,  backing  away  from  him. 

"I'll  find  her!" 

"Maybe  you  can't.  Maybe  the  track  is  all 
arranged,  and  the  roads  are  to  meet — yours  and 
hers,  some  time.  You  run  a  risk;  you  may  be 
starting  too  soon.  Don't  you  see?  A  short  cut 
may  take  you  on  ahead  of  her.  You  may  miss 
her — in  the  dark." 

Peter's  eyes  narrowed;  he  seemed  to  think 
deeply. 

"I  would  suggest,"  Paul  said,  trembling,  "that 
you  should  wait.  It's  something  we  don't  un 
derstand,  this  business  of  Death.  Life  may  be 
a  big  plan—  '  he  was  talking  against  time,  stam 
mering,  repeating  himself,  talking  on,  and  on, 
and  on:  "a  plan;  we  travel  along  our  own  paths 
in  it;  each  of  us,  you,  me,  Eunice.  Paths  side 
by  side.  Then  hers  branches  off,  for  a  while. 

256 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

It  will  meet  yours  again,  somewhere.  We  don't 
know  just  where.  But  if  you  take  a  short  cut, 
you  may  miss  the  cross-roads!  Perhaps,"  he 
stopped,  gathering  his  courage  for  a  wild  risk, 
"perhaps  if  you'd  done  it  this  afternoon — but 
it's  hours  too  late  now!  If  you  get  out  of  your 
own  path,  now,  you'll  be  ahead  of  her,  and  she 
won't  be  able  to  find  you.  She'll  hunt  for  you 
in  the  dark;  maybe  wait,  or  lose  her  way;  and 
all  the  time  you'll  be  far  ahead!" 

Peter  listened  intently.  "She  said  something 
once  about  paths.  I  remember  that."  He  paused, 
staring  blindly  ahead  of  him.  "I  can  see  there  is 
a  chance  of  missing  her,"  he  said.  He  sat  down 
and  leaned  his  head  in  his  hands;  his  shoulders 
loomed  black  against  the  stark  figure  on  the  bed. 

Paul  quivered  with  relief;  neither  man  spoke. 
Suddenly  Peter  got  on  his  feet. 

"But  it's  a  chance,  either  way.  If  I  go,  I  may 
catch  up  to  her — and  I  may  not.  If  I  wait,  I 
may  find  her  when  my  time  comes — or  I  may  not. 
Nobody  knows.  I'll  chance  it!  I'll  go." 

Paul  broke  into  terrified  entreaties  and  argu 
ments,  but  it  was  evident  that  his  brother  was 
not  listening.  He  was  talking  to  himself:  "If 
she'd  only  told  me  what  to  do!  But  I  wouldn't 
let  her.  It  was  my  fault.  Why  didn't  I  let  her 
tell  me?  She  was  always  trying  to,  and  I  wouldn't 
let  her.  What  a  coward  I  was!  And  now  I've 
just  got  to  blunder  along."  He  put  his  hand  out 
for  the  case,  still  gripped  under  Paul's  arm. 

257 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"Wait,  just  till  morning—"  Paul  said.  ("If  I 
can  stave  him  off  till  daylight,  he'll  come  to  him 
self,"  he  thought,  wildly.)  "If  it  is  a  chance  either 
way,"  he  argued,  slyly;  "how  do  you  know  which 
chance  to  take?  Good  idea  to  wait,  and  think 
it  over  very  carefully." 

Peter  gave  him  another  of  those  strangely  lucid 
looks.  "There  is  no  use  in  thinking  it  over. 
There's  no  way  of  deciding  which  is  the  best 
thing  to  do.  No;  I  think  I'd  better  chance 
chance."  He  was  evidently  hesitating.  Paul 
heard  his  sigh  of  perplexity.  "I  could  toss  for 
it?"  he  said;  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
drew  out  a  coin.  As  he  balanced  it  on  his  thumb, 
his  face  grew  quite  calm;  "Yes;  I'll  toss  for  it," 
he  decided. 

"Wait  just  a  minute,"  Paul  gasped.  "Cards 
are  better  than  a  coin,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"She  doesn't  approve  of  cards." 

"She  would  have  called  a  toss-up  gambling." 

Peter  frowned.  "So  she  would,"  he  said,  im 
patiently,  and  put  the  coin  back  in  his  pocket; 
"but — •"  His  voice  trailed  into  silence.  They 
both  looked  over  at  the  sheeted  figure,  as  if  she 
would  tell  them  what  to  do. 

"I've  got  to  do  something,"  Peter  said,  fret 
fully. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can,"  Paul  objected, 
speaking  very  gently.  "You  see,  she  didn't  ap 
prove  of  cards,  or  of  flipping  a  coin,  either.  So 
we'll  have  to  wait  until  morning."  His  eyes 

258 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

strained  into  the  darkness  outside  for  some  hint 
of  dawn. 

Peter  was  not  listening.  He  was  evidently 
puzzled;  neither  cards  nor  a  coin?  "What  can 
I  do?"  he  said;  then  his  eye  fell  on  the  back 
gammon-board.  "Why,  that's  the  thing!"  he 
said,  almost  joyously.  "Why  didn't  I  think  of 
it?  Eunice  doesn't  mind  backgammon.  We'll 
play  one  game.  If  I  win,  I'll  go." 

He  brought  the  little  table  close  to  the  bed 
side,  and  drew  up  the  chairs;  his  mad  eyes  were 
eager  and  satisfied.  "Sit  down!"  he  said.  He 
himself  sat  down  and  opened  the  board.  "Reds 
or  whites?"  he  asked,  and  fumbled  about  for  the 
dice.  Paul  stood  still,  thinking  intently.  Then 
his  face  lightened,  as  if  with  some  solemn  purpose; 
he  nodded  his  head,  very  slowly,  and  took  his  seat. 

"Reds  or  whites?"  Peter  said  again,  impatiently. 

Paul  delayed;  "Throw  for  it."  The  toss  brought 
him  the  reds.  Peter  arranged  his  men  swiftly. 
"Begin!"  he  said.  The  clock  struck  two. 

Paul  demurred.     "No;   toss  for  first  throw." 

Peter  tossed.  "Mine,"  he  said,  and  began  to 
play  while  Paul  was  still  arranging  his  men, 
fumbling  over  them,  dropping  a  checker,  pick 
ing  it  up,  and  dropping  it  again.  "Throw  into 
your  hand,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice;  "there  must 
be  no  noise." 

Peter  nodded.      "Hurry." 

Paul,  looking  past  the  crazy  face  at  the  dead 
woman  on  the  bed,  called  to  her  in  his  heart  for 

259 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

help, — and  threw  low.  Peter  followed  in  a  flash 
with  five  and  four,  and  moved  his  men  swiftly. 
"Your  throw!" 

Paul  deliberated,  delayed,  again  threw  low; 
moved  his  men  one  by  one,  very  slowly;  then 
moved  them  back ;  deliberated ;  and  finally  placed 
them.  Peter  struck  the  board  with  his  dice-box. 

"Hurry!     Hurry!" 

For  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  the  plays  were 
made  with  every  possible  hesitation  on  Paul's 
part,  and  in  total  silence  save  for  the  soft  cupping 
sound  of  the  dice  slipping  into  each  palm,  and  the 
monotonous  plunging  of  the  water  outside.  Paul 
gained.  Peter  began  to  mutter  to  himself. 

"I  must  win,  Eunice,  I  must  win!  Help  me 
and  I'll  catch  up  to  you,  somehow.  Fix  the  dice, 
Eunice,  fix  them!" 

Under  his  breath,  his  brother,  too,  was  saying, 
"Eunice,  show  me  how  to  do  it."  His  dice  came 
faltering  into  his  thin  old  hand;  Peter,  looking 
once  into  his  palm,  gave  a  grunt  of  contempt. 

"One  and  three!  You'll  have  to  do  better  than 
that,"  he  said,  and  flung  double  fives.  Paul 
could  hardly  hold  his  dice-box.  .  .  .  Peter's  next 
move  threw  one  of  Paul's  men  out. 

"Let  us  make  it  the  best  two  games  in  three," 
Paul  entreated.  Peter,  his  eyes  glittering,  said, 
loudly : 

"No!  One  game.  Eunice  is  deciding  it.  One 
game!  If  she  gives  it  to  me,  I'll  follow  her;  if 
she  gives  it  to  you,  I'll  wait.  I'm  whipping  you, 

260 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

Paul;  do  you  see?  Eunice,  I'm  walloping  him! 
You  are  going  to  let  me  come — Gammon!  Gam 
mon!  I'm  whipping  him!" 

He  was.  Paul  threw  low.  Peter  laughed 
loudly.  ' '  Eunice !  I  knew  you  would  say  '  Come' !" 
Then  he  looked  into  his  own  palm  and  frowned, 
— one  and  two.  Paul  threw  high.  Peter  panted 
with  terror:  "Eunice,  that  was  a  mistake.  You 
mustn't  let  him  throw  high!"  Suddenly  he  put 
down  his  dice-box,  and,  turning,  drew  her  hand 
from  under  the  sheet. 

Paul  shivered  back.  "Peter,  stop!  It's  sacrilege!" 

But  he  would  not  stop.  "She  shall  throw,"  he 
said;  and  closing  the  small,  cold  fingers  around 
the  box,  let  the  dice  fall  into  his  own  palm. 
"Double  fives!  Good  for  you,  Eunice!  I'll 
come."  He  put  her  hand  back  under  the  sheet. 
"You  see?"  he  said,  triumphantly;  "she  wants 
me!"  And  he  moved  his  men. 

Paul  was  breathing  hard;  he  shook  his  dice- 
box  softly,  up  and  down,  up  and  down — 

"Throw!"  Peter  commanded. 

But  Paul  delayed. 

"Throw!    I  have  no  time  to  lose — " 

Slowly  the  old  brother  slid  the  dice  into  his 
hand,  instantly  closed  his  fingers  on  them  and 
swept  them  back  into  his  box. 

"What  was  it?     I  didn't  see—" 

"Double  sixes,"  the  older  man  said, in  a  whisper. 

Peter's  face  changed  sharply.  "I  thought  it 
was  five  and  two?" 

261 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Paul's  veined  old  hand  moved  his  men  forward 
like  a  regiment. 

Peter  glared  at  him.  "I  thought  I  saw  a  deuce?" 
he  questioned. 

"It  was  double  sixes,"  his  brother  repeated; 
and  a  moment  later:  "I've  won." 

Peter  looked  at  the  board,  open-mouthed. 
"Why,  Eunice!"  he  said;  the  reproachful  aston 
ishment  of  his  voice  was  pitiful;  "you  want  me 
to  wait?"  he  said,  incredulously.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  could  not  believe  it.  "Why,  Eunice!"  He  re 
proached  her  again,  and  suddenly  burst  out  crying, 
like  a  child.  "Please,  Eunice,  please — please — " 

But  even  as  he  spoke  his  head  sank  on  his 
breast;  then  his  whole  big  body  crumpled  up, 
and  he  fell  forward  over  the  backgammon-board, 
which  lurched  and  tilted,  until  the  red  and  white 
checkers  tumbled  out  and  rolled  over  the  carpet. 
The  board  closed  with  a  bang.  Peter  slipped 
slowly  sidewise  to  the  floor. 

He  was  insensible  when  his  brother  reached 
him;  and  Paul,  loosening  his  collar,  looked  over 
at  the  shape  of  peace  under  the  white  sheet,  and 
said,  brokenly: 

"I  had  to,  Eunice;    it  was  the  only  way." 


VI 

Of  course  it  was  the  only  way.  When  Will 
iam  heard  what  Paul  had  done,  he  said  so,  em 
phatically. 

262 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

"When  Peter  comes  to  himself,  he  will  be  the 
first  to  admit  it,"  he  tried  to  comfort  Paul,  when, 
with  a  rigid  face,  the  little  old  brother  confessed 
his  deception.  He  did  not  confess  it  for  nearly 
a  month,  and  then  it  was  wrung  from  him  only 
because  of  Peter's  wonderful  calmness.  For 
Peter  had  opened  the  third  volume.  .  .  .  The  first 
volume  had  been  written  with  the  bold  hand  of 
Joy,  and  its  words  were  Selfishness  and  Arrogance 
and  Power.  The  second  was  written  by  the  hand 
of  Love;  its  words  were  Success  and  Content. 
In  the  third,  there  was  to  be  only  one  word, 
written  by  the  small,  dead  hand  of  Vanished 
Happiness  —  the  ,  word  Peace.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  as  if  that  gentle  hand  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder,  as  if  to  say,  "Be  still.'1  For  he 
was  very  still. 

At  first  his  stillness  was  the  stillness  of  some 
thing  dead — dead  joy,  dead  hope.  But  by  and 
by  it  seemed  to  be  only  the  pause  of  Life,  waiting 
to  live  more  fully;  for,  to  everybody's  astonish 
ment,  he  began  to  accept  grief  with  a  sweetness 
that  was  almost  cheerfulness.  It  was  then  that 
William  King  commented  on  it  to  Paul. 

"I'm  thankful  he  takes  it  this  way,"  Willy 
said,  "but  I  don't  understand  it." 

"I  understand  it,"  the  old  man  said,  slowly. 
He  was  dreadfully  haggard;  more  so,  the  doctor 
thought,  perplexed,  than  was  Peter  himself;  and 
his  nervousness  was  pitiably  apparent. 

"He  seems  entirely  resigned,"  said  Dr.  King. 
263 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"He  thinks  he  is,"  Paul  said;  then  broke  out: 
"I  deceived  him;  that's  why  he's  resigned." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  closely.  "Better  tell 
me  about  it,"  he  said,  kindly.  When  he  had  been 
told,  he  said  just  what  Paul  himself  had  said: 
"It  was  the  only  way." 

"Yes,"  Paul  agreed,  "it  was  a  good  idea.  He'd 
have  won  if  I  hadn't  lied  to  him.  But  he  will 
never  forgive  me  when  he  knows  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  will,"  William  assured  him. 
"Peter  would  be  the  first  to  say  you  did  right. 
Why,  my  dear  fellow,  he  was  out  of  his  mind!  Of 
course  you  had  to — to — " 

"—  cheat,"  Paul  ended,  briefly. 

"It  wasn't  cheating,"  William  said,  stoutly. 
"It  was  no  more  than  every  doctor  does  a  hun 
dred  times  in  his  practice." 

"That,"  the  little  man  interrupted,  drearily, 
"is  why  Peter  doesn't  like  doctors — except  you. 
He  says  they  are  liars.  And  Peter  never  forgives 
a  lie.  He  says  it's  damnable.  And  of  course  it 
is.  But  I'm  willing  to  be  damned.  You  mustn't 
think  I  mind  being  damned.  If  it  was  to  be  done 
over  again,  I  should  do  it.  But  he  will  never  for 
give  me.  That's  what  I  mind." 

"Well,  then,  don't  tell  him,"  the  doctor  said, 
bluntly;  "at  any  rate,  until  he's  himself  again." 

"Good  idea,"  said  Paul,  dully. 

But  the  "self"  they  had  known  was  long  in 
coming.  The  man  of  violence  and  intolerance 
was  gone,  and  in  his  place  was  a  very  quiet  man, 

264 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

very  still,  very  patient.  A  man  who  waited.  He 
was  willing  enough  to  say  why  this  change  had 
come:  "She  won  that  game,"  he  told  Paul  once, 
in  those  first  weeks  of  stunned  obedience.  "She 
fixed  the  dice.  So  I  am  willing  to  wait."  He  even 
spoke  to  Dr.  King  about  it.  "I  want  you  to  know 
Eunice  gave  me  a  sign,  William.  I  didn't  use  to 
believe  in  ghosts,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I  do 
now.  Eunice  gave  me  a  sign." 

William  King  nodded. 

"I'd  just  as  lief  tell  you  about  it,"  Peter  said. 
"I  wanted  to  rush  right  after  her,  that  night  she 
died,  and  I  got  out  my  pistol.  And  Paul  came 
in  and  suggested  that  I  might  miss  her.  Seemed 
reasonable,  when  I  stopped  to  think  of  it.  So  I 
said,  'well  leave  it  to  chance.'  So  we  played  for 
it.  I  told  Eunice  that  if  she  could  fix  it  so  we 
could  meet,  to  let  me  know  by  making  me  win. 
If  she  couldn't,  why,  she  must  give  Paul  the 
game.  He  threw  double  sixes.  That  settled  it. 
It's  hard  to  wait,  William,  but  I  always  have 
followed  Eunice's  judgment  in  matters  of  that 
kind." 

"I  see,"  William  said,  gravely.  "Well,  I  am 
sure  Eunice  was  right." 

"I  am  satisfied,"  Peter  said,  contentedly,  "and 
I  tell  you  what,  Willy,  I  owe  it  all  to  old  Paulus. 
He  suggested  it.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I'd 
have  gone  blundering  after  her,  and  got  lost,  sure 
as  you're  alive!  Paul  saved  me." 

When  the  doctor  repeated  this  to  Paul  Walton, 
265 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

the  old  man  (he  had  grown  old  very  rapidly  after 
that  night  of  grief  and  fear  and  deceit)  looked 
at  him  with  dismay. 

"Why  did  you  pretend  it  was  so?" 

"Because  it  makes  him  happier  to  believe  it, 
and  it  doesn't  do  anybody  any  harm." 

Paul  shook  his  head,  but  William  insisted. 

"On  that  one  point  Peter  isn't  sane;  but  it's 
better  to  be  crazy  on  one  point  and  happy,  than 
sane  on  all  points  and  unhappy.  You  must  never 
tell  him,  Paul." 

"I'll  have  to,  some  time,"  Paul  said;  "I  couldn't 
die  with  a  lie  between  us." 

That  night,  in  Dr.  Lavendar's  study,  William 
justified  himself:  "Of  course,  Paul  had  to  cheat," 
he  said,  "but  poor  old  Peter!"  he  ended,  sighing, 
"he  is  just  like  a  lost  child!  She  used  to  do  his 
thinking  for  him.  Do  you  remember  how  he 
used  to  say  his  life  was  written  in  two  volumes? 
The  first  volume  was  all  Peter;  the  second, 
Eunice  and  Peter?" 

"What  about  the  third  volume?"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar. 

William  looked  surprised:  "You  mean  his  life 
without  her?" 

"The  third  volume  will  be  all  Eunice,"  Dr. 
Lavendar  said. 

"Oh,"  said  William,  vaguely;  "yes."  Of  course, 
Dr.  Lavendar  was  right,  but  ordinary  folks  have 
to  keep  their  feet  on  the  earth,  and  as  far  as  this 
earth  goes,  Peter  had  lost  Eunice.  William  did 

266 


THE   THIRD    VOLUME 

not  obtrude  his  materialism.  " Isn't  it  strange?" 
he  said.  "In  everything  else  Peter  is  as  sane 
as  a  clock,  but  he  really  believes  she  gave  Paul 
that  game!  Of  course  Paul  must  hold  his 
tongue." 

"Doctors  are  always  certain  of  everything," 
Dr.  Lavendar  said,  admiringly.  "Now,  some  of 
the  rest  of  us  wouldn't  dare  say  she  didn't; — 
or  she  did.  And  as  for  a  lie,  it's  a  dangerous  thing 
to  live  with;  it  festers." 

William  listened — respectfully,  of  course;  but 
he  said  to  himself  that  the  old  saint  was  really 
getting  pretty  old.  "We  mustn't  say  a  word 
about  it,"  he  admonished  him,  kindly,  but  a 
little  condescendingly. 

Dr.  Lavendar  cocked  an  eye  at  him  over  his 
spectacles:  "When  you  retire  from  the  case, 
William,  I  will  prescribe;  or  I'll  present  you  with 
my  formula  now?  Paul  ought  to  have  told  Peter 
the  next  day;  but  not  on  Peter's  account!  The 
Kingdom  of  Heaven  has  suffered  a  good  deal  of 
violence  from  Peter;  he  has  always  taken  it  by 
force  and  he  always  will.  But  Paul  ought  to  have 
told  him  for  his  own  sake." 

There  was,  however,  so  far  as  anybody  knew, 
no  occasion  for  Dr.  Lavendar  to  prescribe.  Paul's 
remorse  was  silent.  All  the  same,  the  lie  festered 
in  his  heart,  as  Dr.  Lavendar  had  said  it  would. 
The  second  year  he  began  to  fail. 

"He  has  never  got  over  Eunice's  loss,"  Peter 
told  William  King;  the  doctor  had  been  summoned 
18  267 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

one  January  morning,  and  was  struggling  into 
his  big  buffalo  coat  in  the  hall. 

"Very  cold  weather  is  hard  on  old  people,"  he 
encouraged  Peter. 

But  Peter  knew  it  was  not  the  weather  that 
was  sapping  Paul.  "He  misses  Eunice,"  he  said, 
gently.  "If  only  she  had  given  us  the  word,  we 
could  both  have  gone  after  her.  It's  very  hard 
on  him  to  wait,  too." 

"I've  given  him  a  tonic,"  William  said. 

"It  will  do  about  as  much  good  as  one  of  your 
bread  pills.  I'm  worried  about  him,  Willy." 

"Bread  pills  have  their  value,"  the  doctor 
said,  dryly.  "I'm  worried,  too,"  he  added,  but 
he  did  not  say  about  whom.  "If  Paul  blurts  it  all 
out,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "Peter '11  go  after 
her,  yet!" 

Paul  had  said  his  brother  would  never  forgive 
a  deception;  and  William,  after  a  friendship  of 
more  than  fifty  years,  knew  Peter  well  enough  to 
think  he  was  right.  The  idea  of  the  cheated  man's 
anger  shaking  a  death-bed  so  shocked  and  alarmed 
him  that  he  thought  uneasily  of  that  "prescrip 
tion"  which  Dr.  Lavendar  said  ought  to  have 
been  given  "the  next  day."  "He  knew  a  good 
deal,"  William  thought,  sadly.  "I  wish  I  had 
dared  to  give  Paul  the  old  saint's  medicine." 

But  he  did  not  dare,  now,  and  there  was  no 
Dr.  Lavendar  in  Old  Chester  to  give  his  own 
medicine  for  the  cure  of  a  soul.  All  Dr.  King 
could  do  was  to  care  for  Paul's  body.  A  quarrel 

268 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

with  Peter  would  kill  him,  the  doctor  thought,  and 
again  he  urged  the  failing  old  man  to  be  silent. 

But  Paul,  yielding  and  timid  and  submissive 
all  his  harmless  life,  was,  on  this  one  most  harm 
ful  idea,  at  the  very  end  of  life,  immovably  cour 
ageous.  He  was  entirely  alive  to  the  possibilities 
of  his  brother's  unforgiving  anger;  as  for  the 
possibility  of  Peter's  still  carrying  out  that  pur 
pose  which  Paul's  lie  had  thwarted,  "that,"  the 
little  old  brother  said,  faintly,  "isn't  any  of  my 
business,  now." 

"Well,  anyway,  Paul,  don't  tell  him  when  I'm 
not  around,"  William  entreated.  "I  must  be  with 
Peter." 

"Good  idea,"  said  old  Paul,  and  drowsed  a  little. 

Outside,  the  brilliant  January  day  had  laid  a 
white  finger  on  the  river's  thunderous  lip,  and 
the  house  was  strangely  still.  The  doctor,  sit 
ting  at  Paul's  bedside,  thought  of  the  soft,  en 
folding  roar  that  night  when  Eunice  had  slept 
in  frozen  stillness  and  old  Paul  had  damned  him 
self  to  save  Peter's  soul.  "Greater  love  hath  no 
man  than  that,"  he  thought;  "I  guess  Paul  is  as 
sure  of  heaven  as  Eunice  herself ! ' '  He  looked  at  the 
small  figure,  making  a  little  mound  under  the  com 
forters,  and  wished  he  might  slip  away  in  his  sleep. 

The  very  next  afternoon  when  his  sleigh  came 
over  the  creaking  snow,  and  stopped  at  the  Wai- 
tons'  gate,  Peter  met  him  with  a  haggard  face. 

"He's  sinking,  William." 

"I  was  afraid  so,"  said  the  doctor. 
269 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"But  he's  very  anxious  to  see  you.  Said  he 
couldn't  die  before  you  came,  because  he  prom 
ised  to  do  something — I  can't  quite  make  out 
what.  He's  wandering,  I  think." 

William  nodded.  "You  better  wait  outside," 
he  told  Peter,  pausing  at  Paul's  door.  But  there 
came  a  feeble  voice  from  within: 

"No;  Peter  must  come  in.  Willy  can  wait 
outside,  if  anybody  does." 

So  the  two  men  entered  together,  Peter  on 
noisy  tiptoe,  and  blowing  his  nose  with  a  great 
flourish  of  a  red  silk  handkerchief. 

"I'm  in  a  hurry,"  Paul  said,  fretfully;  "you've 
kept  me  waiting,  William.  Peter,  I  want  to  tell 
you,  it  wasn't  double  sixes.  It  was  five  and  two." 

Peter  looked  at  the  doctor:    "Wandering?" 

"No,"  Paul  said,  sharply;  "I'm  not.  I  cheated 
you  that  night.  That's  all.  Now  you  can  go, 
William,  and  let  me  die  in  peace.  He  can  kill 
me  if  he  wants  to." 

Peter,  listening,  perplexed,  agape,  suddenly 
understood.  The  color  rushed  furiously  to  his 
face;  he  lifted  his  hands,  his  fingers  opening  and 
closing;  he  said  some  incoherent,  stammering 
words.  Perhaps  his  mind  staggered  in  this  sud 
den  assault  upon  a  fixed  and  necessary  belief.  .  .  . 
What?  She  hadn't  told  him  to  stay?  She  hadn't 
indicated  that  it  was  not  safe  to  follow  her?  The 
room  whirled  around  him;  he  clutched  at  the 
bedpost  to  keep  on  his  feet.  ...  He  had  lost  his 
chance  to  catch  up  to  her! 

270 


THE   THIRD   VOLUME 

Paul  looked  at  him  wearily.  "I  would  suggest 
that  you  should  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "Of  course, 
if  I  get  well,  it  needn't  hold."  But  even  as  he 
spoke  Peter's  color  ebbed,  and  his  face  calmed, 
as  it  used  to  calm  at  the  old  command,  "Be  still." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  breathing  hard,  as  though  he 
had  been  running;  "I  understand!  For  a  minute 
I  didn't — understand.  Eunice  made  you  cheat. 
I  had  to  lose,  so  she  made  you  cheat  to  make  me 
lose?  She  didn't  know  she  oughtn't  to.  It  was 
only  a  game  to  her;  she  never  understood — 
honor."  He  still  panted  for  breath,  but  he  smiled. 
"You  remember,  she  never  understood?  To  her, 
a  game  was  just  a  game.  Just  amusement.  Don't 
you  remember  that  she  couldn't  understand  why 
we  were  so  hard  on  Alex  Morgan?  Paul,  if  you 
see  her  before  I  do,  tell  her  I  obeyed  orders;  tell 
her  I'm  waiting.  But  explain  to  her  that  that 
sort  of  thing  really  won't  do.  She  mustn't  cheat. 
She  really  mustn't!  Make  it  clear,  Paul." 

"Good  idea,"  Paul  said,  and  drowsed  into  peace. 

"It's  just  as  the  old  saint  said,"  William 
thought,  as  in  in .  the  yellow  winter  sunset  he 
drove  across  the  creaking  snow  back  to  Old 
Chester.  "Peter  will  believe  what  he  has  to  be 
lieve.  Paul  might  as  well  have  told  the  truth 
the  next  day,  and  spared  himself  the  burden  of 
his  poor  little^ lie.  It  wasn't  necessary.  And 
who  knows!  perhaps  Eunice  really  did — f" 


THE    THIEF 


THE  THIEF 


OPINION  in  Old  Chester  was  divided  as  to 
the  propriety  of  Dr.  Lavendar's  course  in 
assisting  Oscar  King  to  run  away  with  Miss 
Ferris's  niece;  most  of  the  new  people  thought, 
"considering  the  circumstances,"  that  he  had  been 
quite  right;  but  some  of  the  old  people  were  af 
fronted.  Judge  Morrison  said  to  his  sister,  his 
thin  lips  curling  back  from  his  yellow  teeth: 

"If  I  had  a  daughter  I  would  put  an  injunction 
on  Edward  Lavendar  for  safety.  I  don't  know 
but  what  I'll  do  it  anyhow,  on  your  account, 
Hannah;  you're  such  a  lovely  creature!  Jim 
Shields  will  be  running  off  with  you,  the  first 
thing  I  know." 

The  poor  old  maid,  who  had  never  grown  cal 
lous  to  her  brother's  gibes,  reddened  slowly  under 
her  leathery  skin;  but  she  said  to  herself,  "Dr. 
Lavendar  was  right!" 

Mrs.  Dale,  on  the  contrary,  was  "painfully 
astonished";  and  Mrs.  BarMey  said  that  "Dr. 
Lavendar  did  not  consider  the  example  to  youth; 

275 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

still,  she  would  always  believe  in  the  probity  of 
his  motives,  no  matter  what  happened." 

"For  my  part,"  said  Jim  Shields  to  his  brother, 
"I  consider  the  dominie  accessory  before  the 
crime;  but,  Lord!  Horace,  I  hope  he  won't  re 
form  in  case  anybody  should  undertake  to  run 
away  with  our  Annie!" 

As  for  their  Annie,  she  approved  of  Dr.  Lav- 
endar,  and  said  so  courageously  right  and  left. 
Yet,  dear  me!  what  a  difference  the  personal 
equation  does  make  in  matters  of  judgment! 
When  Dr.  Lavendar  put  his  finger  in  Annie's  pie, 
how  it  altered  her  belief  in  his  wisdom! 

Annie  was  the  twins'  niece — "the  twins"  being 
Horace  and  James  Shields,  who  lived  on  Main 
Street,  next  door  to  the  post-office.  Only  once 
had  there  been  any  rival  in  the  affection  of  these 
two  old  men  for  each  other,  and  that  was  so  long 
ago  that  they  had  both  forgotten  it.  "Passing 
the  love  of  women,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said  once  of 
that  silent,  dogged  devotion  that  kept  little  Mr. 
Horace  at  James's  elbow,  to  be  eyes  to  the  blind 
and  feet  to  the  lame;  for  the  elder  brother  (the 
elder  by  some  twenty  minutes)  had  been  a  para 
lytic  since  he  was  thirty-five,  and  a  little  later  an 
illness  had  stolen  his  sight.  But  in  spite  of  what 
he  called  his  "cussed  body,"  Jim  Shields  was  the 
heart  and  mind  of  the  Shields  household;  he 
directed  and  protected  his  twin;  bossed  him  and 
bullied  him  (at  least  so  Old  Chester  said),  but 
always  with  a  curious  and  touching  tenderness. 

276 


THE   THIEF 

As  for  old  Mr.  Horace,  he  simply  lived  for 
James. 

Into  this  absorbed  household  came,  when  she 
was  thirty,  the  daughter  of  a  younger  brother 
who  had  died  abroad.  She  had  found  instantly 
in  poor,  sleepy,  behind-the-times  Old  Chester  a 
hundred  interests:  the  town  needed  a  library — • 
the  money  must  be  raised  for  it!  ''The  poor 
Smiths' "  second  girl  was  an  undeveloped  genius — 
she  must  be  sent  to  a  school  of  design,  so  that 
she  might  become  a  great  artist.  The  shiftless 
Todds  only  had  meat  three  times  a  week — they 
must  be  properly  fed;  it  was  horrible  to  think 
of  such  destitution!  Dr.  Lavendar  reminded  her 
that  if  a  man  will  not  work,  neither  shall  he  eat; 
but  Annie  had  a  different  theory — at  least  in  re 
gard  to  the  man's  family.  Indeed,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  this  warm-hearted,  energetic  wom 
an  had  a  good  many  theories,  and  she  talked 
about  them  until  all  Old  Chester  found  her  just 
a  little  fatiguing.  As  for  the  twins,  at  first  the 
presence  of  their  strong,  happy,  vital  niece  was 
bewildering;  then  her  dramatic  appreciation  of 
the  helplessness  of  one  uncle  and  the  gentleness  of 
the  other,  her  readiness  to  throw  herself  into  their 
interests  and  claim  and  command  a  share  in  their 
lives,  the  passionate  devotion  with  which  she 
served  them,  made  the  two  old  men  first  amazed, 
then  flattered,  then  dependent,  and  then — but 
that  is  looking  ahead! 

When  Annie  was  forty,  when  for  ten  years  she 
277 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

had  decided  what  would  make  them  comfortable, 
what  would  amuse  them,  what  they  needed  for 
health  and  happiness  (and  decided  wisely,  too), 
the  two  old  brothers  may  have  had  opinions  which 
they  did  not  share  with  the  world.     It  is  possible 
that  they  were  tired  of  being  "interesting";   that 
James,  who  had  a  large  nose  and  a  big,  powerful 
head,   wearied  of  being  told   (and  having  other 
people  told)  how  clever  he  was,  and  how  dear  and 
good  and  patient— "though  he  will  use  naughty 
words  sometimes,"  Annie  would  say,   laughing. 
Old  Mr.  Horace  used  to  wince,  and  open  and  shut 
his  eyes  rapidly,  when  Annie  declared,  her  own 
pretty  eyes  beaming  with  tenderness,  that  he  was 
perfectly  sweet!     But  all  the  same,  the  two  old 
gentlemen — they  were  really  old  when  the  time 
came  for  Annie's  story — the  two  old  men  always 
said  that  they  were  very  fortunate  in  having  their 
niece  to  take  care  of  them.     "And,"  said  Old 
Chester,   "no  doubt  Annie's  money  helps  them 
along  a  little."     For  everybody  knew  that  the 
twins  had  very  little  money  of  their  own. 
^  Annie  was  not  rich;  she  was  only  what  is  called 
"in  comfortable  circumstances";    but  when  she 
came  to  live  with  her  uncles,  she  must  have  been 
in  uncomfortable  circumstances,  a  good  deal  of 
the  time,  for,  in  spite  of  their  worried  protests, 
she  spent  far  more  money  on  the  two  old  men 
than  on  herself.      Annie  Shields's  generosity  in 
this  respect  was  proverbial  in  Old  Chester,  and 
several   friends  remonstrated  with  her  about  it 

278 


THE   THIEF 

— though  their  admiration  took  the  edge  off  re 
proof. 

"My  dear,  you  shouldn't  spend  all  your  money 
on  your  uncles!  Why  don't  you  have  this,  or 
that,  or  the  other?  You  ought  not  to  be  so  un 
selfish,  you  dear  child!"  And  Annie,  smiling, 
would  shake  her  head  and  say,  "It's  just  selfish 
ness,  dear  Mrs.  Dale  [or  Mrs.  Dove,  or  Mrs.  Dil- 
worth,  whomever  it  might  be] — I  like  to  do  it." 

And  when  she  told  this  truth,  the  admiring  re- 
monstrator  only  admired  her  the  more,  and  never 
knew  that  it  was  the  truth.  If  the  brothers  ever 
winced  at  being  made  her  beneficiaries,  it  was  not 
in  public.  When  Annie  presented  her  Uncle 
James  with  a  new  and  very  elaborate  wheeled 
chair,  the  old  man  may  have  set  his  teeth  and 
thought  a  "naughty  word,"  and  Uncle  Horace 
may  have  sighed,  and  said:  "Make  the  best  of 
it.  Let  her  enjoy  herself.  And  the  chair  isn't 
bad,  Jimmy?" 

"No,  it  isn't  bad,  and  she  means  to  be  kind, 
damn  it;  she  means  to  be  kind!"  the  old  invalid 
reminded  himself;  and  never  had  the  heart  to 
jar  the  girl's  enjoyment  of  sacrifice  by  telling  her 
how  it  tried  him  to  receive  it.  But  in  spite  of 
such  bad  moments  the  two  uncles  did  come  to 
depend  on  her.  They  gave  her  nothing  but  affec 
tion — they  had  nothing  else  to  give — that,  and  a 
roof  and  the  opportunity  to  rule  and  order  their 
elderly  lives;  and  she  gave  them  service  and  de 
votion  and  comfort  and  love  and  unstinted  ad- 

279 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

miration.  So  it  will  be  seen  that  they  had  no 
claim  upon  her.  No  one  could  possibly  say  that 
she  owed  them  any  duty  when  it  came  to  a 
question  of  her  own  life — when  it  came  to  the 
arrival  upon  the  scene  of  her  Mr.  Hastings.  No, 
even  Old  Chester  admitted  reluctantly  that  the 
twins  had  no  claim  on  Annie;  for  years,  for  her 
own  pleasure,  she  had  sacrificed  herself  for  them; 
and  now,  still  for  her  own  pleasure,  she  was  going 
to  sacrifice  them.  But  she  was  no  more  selfish 
in  the  one  case  than  in  the  other. 

Thomas  Hastings  was  nearly  forty  when  he 
met  Annie,  who  was  a  year  or  two  older; — a 
warm-hearted,  shallow  man,  quite  good-looking, 
and  with  an  aptitude  little  short  of  genius  for  re 
flecting  and  repeating  whatever  was  admirable  in 
his  friends'  opinions.  Not  that  he  was  in  the 
least  a  hypocrite;  he  merely  assented  with  all  his 
heart  to  any  sentiment  which  was  obviously  noble, 
or,  as  he  used  to  say,  "superb  " ;  and  he  thought  he 
originated  it.  He  was,  in  fact,  an  excellent  trans 
mitting  medium  for  other  persons'  ideas.  A  kind 
ly,  fatuous,  histrionic  man,  he  had  fallen  in  love 
many  times,  but  his  love-affairs  had  not  pros 
pered.  It  was  rumored  that  he  had  proposed  to 
Susan  Carr  when  she  was  visiting  in  Mercer,  and 
that  she  had  replied  that  when  she  married  she 
would  marry  a  man;  not  herself  in  trousers.  The 
fact  was  poor  Tom  repelled  strong  personalities, 
more  especially  among  his  own  sex  than  among 
women,  who,  for  the  most  part,  regarded  him  with 

280 


THE   THIEF 

a  good-natured  amusement — recollecting  that  he 
had  made  love  to  them  in  the  past. 

As  for  old  Chester,  when  Tom  Hastings  came  to 
visit  the  Macks,  and  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Shields, 
it  said  he  was  an  agreeable  person  and  would 
make  Annie  a  good  husband.  The  Macks,  per 
haps,  had  misgivings  when  they  saw  how  things 
were  going;  or  at  least  Mrs.  Mack  had.  But  her 
husband  tried  to  reassure  her.  ' 4  He's  only  a  fool, ' ' 
said  Mr.  Mack,  "not  a  knave." 

But  Mrs.  Mack  could  not  help  remembering 
how  she  had  praised  Annie  to  her  susceptible 
guest,  and  appealed  to  Annie's  kindness  for  the 
guest,  who  at  that  particular  time  chanced  to  be 
in  some  business  gloom.  Annie's  sympathies  had 
been  instantly  stirred;  and  as  for  Mr.  Hastings, 
he  had  been  quick  to  applaud  when  Mrs.  Mack 
told  him  that  Annie  was  giving  up  her  life  to  the 
two  old  uncles. 

"And  when  you  remonstrate  with  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Mack,  warmly,  the  tears  in  her  good,  kind 
eyes,  "the  child  just  says,  'Well,  Mrs.  Mack,  I 
don't  see  what  one  can  do  better  with  one's  life 
than  to  give  it  to  other  people."' 

"Superb!"  said  Tom  Hastings,  heartily. 

"And  she  has  such  an  admiration  for  good 
ness,"  Mrs.  Mack  continued;  "she  says  that 
character  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  I 
don't  know  just  what  she  means,"  said  Mrs.  Mack, 
thoughtfully,  "but  she  certainly  does  appreciate 
goodness  in  people." 

281 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Ah,  fine!  fine!"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  cordially. 
Now  those  who  admire  what  we  believe  to  be 
admirable  are  always  persons  of  great  common 
sense;  so,  after  that,  Mrs.  Mack  was  disposed  to 
think  well  of  Mr.  Hastings,  and  she  said  very 
nice  things  about  him  to  Miss  Annie  Shields,  who 
was  always  hospitable  to  enthusiasms.  "He 
spoke  with  so  much  appreciation  of  you,  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Mack. 

"Of  me?"  said  Annie,  surprised.  "He  doesn't 
know  anything  about  me!" 

"Oh,  well,  I  told  him  a  few  things,"  Mrs.  Mack 
confessed,  her  honest,  motherly  face  beaming 
with  kindness. 

"Why,  you  naughty  woman!"  Annie  said,  laugh 
ing.  "He'll  find  me  out  when  he  meets  me." 

So  she  also  was  disposed  to  think  well  of  Mr. 
Hastings;  and  when  she  saw  him,  handsome,  some 
what  sad  (his  latest  refusal  had  discouraged  him), 
with  great  manner  and  also  good  manners — two 
things  not  necessarily  seen  together — when  she 
was  told  that  he  wrote  (but,  through  some  fine 
reserve,  did  not  publish)  poetry,  when  she  heard 
all  her  own  theories  of  art  and  conduct  echoing 
in  almost  her  own  words  from  his  lips — why,  then 
she  fell  in  love  with  him.  In  fact,  it  was  almost 
love  at  first  sight.  She  had  called  at  the  Macks' 
to  see  Gertrude  about  something,  and  there  was 
this  big  man,  with  a  piercing  blue  eye,  blond 
hair  that  stood  up  in  a  sort  of  pompadour,  and 
who,  with  folded  arms  and  intent  expression, 

282 


THE   THIEF 

preserved  a  fine  silence.  Mrs.  Mack  began,  as 
usual,  a  protest  that  Annie  was  wearing  herself 
out  for  other  people,  when,  lo!  this  new  man 
said,  quietly:  "Why  not?  Can  one  do  anything 
better  with  one's  life  than  to  spend  it  for  others?" 
Annie  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  start. 
How  true  that  was,  but  how  fine  to  say  it !  How 
unlike  the  tiresome  praise  of  people  like  Mrs. 
Mack!  She  answered  him  with  the  eager  en 
thusiasm  which  had  kept  her  young  in  spite  of 
her  forty  years. 

''Indeed  you  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Hastings. 
Giving  is  really  receiving,  isn't  it?" 

"To  give  is  to  receive,"  Tom  answered,  his  eyes 
narrowing  with  some  subtle  thought.  Then  he 
came  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  looked  at  her 
so  intently  that  Annie  felt  her  face  flush;  but  she 
said  to  herself  that  he  was  so  in  earnest  that  she 
did  not  believe  he  even  saw  her.  He  was  very 
confiding;  "those  deep,  simple  natures  always 
are,"  Annie  told  Mrs.  Mack  afterwards.  He  told 
her  he  had  failed  in  business,  and  was  looking 
about  for  something  to  do.  "You  haven't  a  job 
in  boot-blacking  in  Old  Chester?"  he  inquired, 
with  a  fine  gaiety  that  Annie  felt  was  a  very  beau 
tiful  and  cheerful  courage.  She  responded  in  the 
same  vein,  and  said  there  would  at  least  be  no 
competition  in  such  a  venture  in  Old  Chester; 
and  all  the  while  her  eyes  were  bright  with  in 
terest  and  appreciation. 

"Oh,  competition,"  said  Tom  Hastings,  who  was 
19  283 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

coming  down  from  his  ethical  high  horse  and 
getting  frivolous — "competition  is  the  life  of  trade, 
you  know!" 

"It  is  the  death  of  honesty,"  cried  Annie,  who 
had  theories  in  the  direction  of  political  economy 
which  she  and  Gertrude  Mack  used  to  discuss 
passionately.  Mr.  Hastings'  face  was  instantly 
intense. 

"Competition  cuts  the  throat  of  honesty,"  he 
said.  "Miss  Shields,  I  could  not  say  it  to  every 
one,  but  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  I 
am  proud  to  have  failed  in  business." 

"I  do  understand,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"And  I  can  guess  the  temptation  to  succeed,  too, 
to  a  man  of— of  power,  Mr.  Hastings."  Annie 
was  trembling  with  the  reality  of  what  she  said. 
"I  wonder,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  boyish  im 
pulsiveness  that  always  touched  women — his  face 
absorbed  and  eager,  and  looking  up  at  her  from 
under  his  frowning,  blond  eyebrows — "I  wonder 
if  you  will  think  me  too  informal  if  I  say  that  the 
understanding  of  a  woman  like  you — makes  char 
acter  seem  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world  ?" 

Annie  took  this  somewhat  solid  flattery  with 
out  a  quiver.  It  is  amazing  how  much  flattery  a 
sensible  middle-aged  woman  can  absorb! 

When  he  went  away,  Mr.  Hastings  -took  her 
hand  and  bowed  deeply  in  silence;  then  he  gave 
her  a  long  look. 

Annie  was  stirred  through  and  through;  she 
went  home  tingling  with  excitement.  At  supper 

284 


THE   THIEF 

she  told  her  uncles  all  about  this  new  man,  with 
the  sweet  vehemence  which  was  part  of  her  own 
charm. 

"He  said  such  beautiful  things!  Uncle  Jim, 
he  must  come  and  see  you.  I  know  how  you  will 
delight  in  him.  He  has  that  same  passion  for 
generosity  that  you  have  yourself,  you  dear,  im 
provident  uncle!  He  said  (I  think  this  is  really 
an  epigram),  'To  give  is  to  receive.'  When  you 
think  of  all  that  means!" 

"Well,"  said  Jim  Shields,  "the  remark  was 
passed  some  two  thousand  years  ago  that  it  was 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive;  but  I  sup 
pose  this  is  an  improvement?" 

Annie  laughed  good-naturedly.  "How  you  do 
love  to  take  me  down,  Uncle  Jim!  But  all  the 
same,  it  was  fine — and  so  unusual!" 

It  was; — Old  Chester  never  said  beautiful 
things  about  such  commonplaces  as  kindness,  or 
generosity,  or  ordinary  honesty;  not  even  Dr. 
Lavendar  called  it  "superb"  to  be  amiable  to 
your  invalid  uncle.  So  when  Mr.  Hastings  echoed 
Miss  Shields's  ideas  it  was  no  wonder  that  she  felt, 
as  she  told  Helen  Smith,  that  she  had  found  a  gold 
mine  of  character! 

But  because  he  repeated  to  her  her  theories  of 
philanthropy,  the  gold-mine  was  pushed  into 
parish  work,  and  compelled  to  visit  the  poor  in 
Annie's  company.  Because  he  agreed  to  all  she 
said  concerning  the  talent  of  the  "poor  Smiths"' 
girl,  he  was  obliged  to  look  at  numberless  sheets  of 

285 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

smudgy  charcoal-drawings,  and  as  Annie  found 
her  artistic  judgment  indorsed,  her  determination 
to  send  the  girl  away  from  home  to  study,  was 
greatly  strengthened.  Because  he  declared  that 
her  Uncle  Jim  was  "wonderful,"  he  had  to  go  into 
Mr.  James  Shields's  room  and  bear  that  gentle 
man's  not  too  subtle  sarcasm  every  time  he  called 
upon  Jim's  niece.  He  sympathized  with  Annie's 
effort  to  raise  money  to  start  a  free  library.  He 
rejoiced  that  somebody  should  feed  the  hungry 
and  clothe  the  naked  and  look  out  for  the  im 
provident  Todds.  To  Annie,  it  was  like  seeing  all 
her  ideals  suddenly  embodied;  and  she  never 
knew  that  she  was  only  staring  rapturously  into 
a  looking-glass! 

Well,  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  they  were  married. 

One  or  two  people  looked  dubious  when  the  en 
gagement  was  announced;  but  no  one  gave 
Punch's  advice.  After  all,  why  should  they? 
Whose  business  was  it?  She  was  old  enough  to 
judge  for  herself,  and  there  was  nothing  bad  about 
the  man. 

The  two  old  uncles  never  dreamed  of  objecting. 

"You  see,"  her  Uncle  James  said  to  her  Uncle 
Horace — "you  see,  Annie  is — mature.  She's  cut 
her  eye-teeth;  and  if  she  likes  him,  do,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,  let  her  marry  him!  I've  always  been 
afraid  she'd  be  a  missionary  or  go  on  the  stage." 

Uncle  Horace  sighed:  "Oh,  he's  all  right,  I 
suppose.  But  I  don't  take  to  him." 

"Well,  you  don't  have  to  marry  him.     I  can't 
286 


THE   THIEF 

find  out  that  he  ever  robbed  any  hen-roosts.  I'd 
like  him  better  if  he  had.  But  he's  perfectly  lady 
like.  He's  a  sentimental  cuss,  but  Annie  likes 
sentiment.  My  objection  is  to  his  looks.  You 
say  he  has  a  lot  of  chin,  and  no  nose  to  speak  of. 
I  hate  a  man  with  no  nose!  And  he  goes  and  sits 
with  the  women  in  the  afternoons,  and  reads  his 
poems  to  'em — " 

"Well,"  interrupted  the  other  uncle,  patiently, 
"if  Annie  likes  that  sort  of  thing,  that's  the  sort 
of  thing  she'll  like;  and  so  long  as  there  is  nothing 
against  the  man's  character,  it  isn't  our  business. 
Her  money  is  in  trust." 

"Yes,"  Jim  Shields  agreed,  "and  I  don't  see 
why  she  shouldn't  spend  it  on  anything  she  wants 
to." 

That  she  would  no  longer  spend  it  on  them 
made  these  two  gentlemen  extremely  careful  not  to 
express  any  latent  opposition  they  may  have  felt. 

So  there  was  no  protest  from  the  bride's  side. 
And  as  for  the  groom,  unless  the  various  ladies 
who  had  refused  him  during  the  last  score  of 
years  had  announced  that  they  wished  to  recon 
sider  the  matter,  there  could  be  no  protest  from  his 
side.  So  they  were  married;  and  Tom  wrote  an 
epithalamium  for  the  wedding-day  which  began : 

See  the  dawn — high  heaven-sent  dawn! 

And  Annie  had  it  printed  on  squares  of  white 
satin  which  were  presented  to  the  wedding-guests 
as  souvenirs  of  the  happy  occasion. 

287 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

They  settled  down  in  Old  Chester  for  the 
summer,  because,  Annie  said,  it  was  necessary  for 
Mr.  Hastings  to  have  absolute  leisure  to  decide 
the  very  important  question  of  his  future  occupa 
tion.  Mr.  Hastings  had  failed  in  the  real-estate 
business,  because,  Annie  said,  with  smiling  elation, 
he  was  too  honest  and  straightforward  for  the 
meanness  of  business  life! 

"I  suppose  he  told  you  so  himself?"  her  Uncle 
James  suggested,  with  a  guileless  look;  Annie 
agreed,  eagerly:  "yes,  indeed!  one  of  the  first 
things  which  attracted  me  to  Tom  was  his  protest 
against  the  immorality  of  competition." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  her  Uncle  James  said,  but 
his  tone  made  Annie  angry.     She  left  the  two  old 
men  with  a  cold  good-by;    they  did  not  appre 
ciate  Tom,  and  so  she  ceased  to  appreciate  them. 
Indeed,   she  ceased  to  appreciate  many  things: 
the  Todds  were  lucky  if  they  had  meat  once  a 
week  in  those  days;    the  "poor  Smiths'"  second 
daughter  drew  ginger-jars  and  lemons,  uncheered 
by  prophesies  of  future  fame;    Old  Chester  may 
have  pined  for  literature,  but  nobody  was  commis 
sioned  to  draw  plans  for  a  library.   Annie  Hastings' 
heart  and  mind  were  absorbed  in  her  own  happi 
ness,  and  in  the  pride  of  realizing  that  she  was 
the  wife  of  a  great  man.     Her  passionate  ambi 
tion  was  to  help  the  great  man  make  up  his  mind 
just  how  he  had  best  express  himself  to  the  world, 
m  so  doing,  help  his  fellow-men.     "What  else  is 
life  for,  but  to  help  others?"  he  asked  solemnly. 

288 


THE   THJEF 

Meantime,  they  rented  the  Poindexter  house. 
One  says  the  Poindexter  house,  though  it  was 
really  the  Shore  house.  Mrs.  Shore's  mother  had 
been  a  Poindexter  before  her  marriage,  and  the 
Shores  owned  it,  but  rarely  lived  in  it.  One 
wonders  if  any  contagion  of  grief  or  shame  lingers 
about  old  houses?  Cecil  Shore  had  married  a 
high-minded  egotist;  there  had  been  scenes  of 
cruelty  here;  there  had  been  that  bitterness  which 
only  marriage  can  produce  in  the  human  heart; 
there  had  been  disappointment  and  selfishness, 
hatred  and  misery,  and  the  crash  of  broken  ideals. 

And  to  this  house  came  the  bride  and  groom  to 
spend  their  first  wedded  summer.  Old  Chester 
made  its  call,  and  talked  about  the  pair  before  the 
iron  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  had  fairly 
closed  behind  it. 

"How  long  do  you  suppose  it  will  be  before  she 
finds  him  out?" 

"Oh,  she'll  never  find  him  out!  She  idealizes 
him  so  entirely  that  she  is  blind.  How  long  do 
you  suppose  he  can  live  up  to  her  ecstasies?  It 
must  be  very  fatiguing." 

"Ah,  that's  the  serious  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Mack, 
who  was  a  wise  woman,  even  if  she  was  new  in 
Old  Chester. 

It  was  serious;  and  yet  other  people's  good 
opinions  of  us  are  very  good  props  to  character. 
If  our  nearest  and  dearest  believe  us  to  be  Raphaels 
or  Shakespeares  or  Platos,  it  is  hard  not  to  at  least 
pose  in  the  attitudes  of  these  great  folks. 

289 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

As  for  Tom  Hastings,  he  was  bewildered  by 
Annie's  adoration  of  him,  of  his  poetry,  and  his 
virtues.  After  all,  could  he  be  expected  to  say, 
"  Madam  and  wife,  I  am  a  poor,  shallow,  ami 
able  jackass,  and  as  such  I  tender  you  my 
devotion"?  That  surely  would  have  been  more 
than  human! 

Besides,  his  humility  would  only  have  convinced 
her  of  his  true  greatness,  and  been  a  triumphant 
proof  of  her  unerring  judgment. 


ii 


The  first  mist  in  this  cloudless  sky  of  domestic 
happiness  grew  out  of  Tom's  amiable  way  of  say 
ing  he  "believed  people  were  right." 

Mr.  Hastings  had  really  the  most  kindly  feel 
ing  in  the  world  for  Dr.  Lavendar;  he  once  wrote 
a  poem,  called  "Cure  of  Souls,"  in  which  he  paid 
a  very  pretty  tribute  to  "reverent  age  " ;  but  when 
Helen  Smith  pointed  out  the  old  clergyman's 
shortcomings,  he  gave  his  generous,  big -voiced 
assent  to  her  opinions, — which  was  very  agreeable 
to  her,  but  which,  before  he  knew  it,  committed 
him  to  the  opposition  in  regard  to  Dr.  Lav 
endar. 

As  it  happened,  he  and  Annie  had  never  talked 
parish  matters  over;  she  was  too  absorbed  in  him 
to  have  revealed  her  affection  for  Dr.  Lavendar. 
Hence,  not  knowing  it,  he  ardently  accepted  Miss 

290 


THE   THIEF 

Helen  Smith's  feeling, — that  the  old  man  was 
behind  the  times,  an  injury  to  the  church,  and  a 
drag  upon  progress;  so  he  said  he  "believed  Miss 
Smith  was  right." 

"Well,  then,  you'll  help  us,  won't  you,  Mr. 
Hastings?"  Helen  pleaded,  prettily. 

"I  will,"  he  said,  with  his  grave,  intent  look. 
Helen  Smith  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said,  a  little 
seriousness  stealing  in  among  her  dimples,  that 
it  made  her  believe  in  a  special  providence,  people 
were  so  good  to  her  in  helping  her  work  for  the 
church. 

Mr.  Hastings,  cheerful  and  good-looking,  his 
very  pompadour  bristling  with  sympathy  for 
every  good  word  and  work,  said  that  her  sense  of 
responsibility  for  the  wheels  of  progress  was 
superb. 

"I  hate  to  have  the  wheels  go  over  Dr.  Lav- 
endar,"  Helen  said,  "but  the  church  must  be  our 
first  consideration." 

"But  we  must  treat  him  with  the  utmost  kind 
ness,"  Tom  declared.  On  the  way  home  he  had 
certain  generous  promptings  in  the  way  of  col 
lecting  other  people's  money  to  console  Dr.  Lav- 
endar  with  a  purse — he  knew  that  Annie  would 
approve  of  generosity. 

"We  must  do  the  big  thing,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  as  he  came  into  the  hall,  and  heard  the  rustle 
of  Annie's  skirts  as  she  came  running  down-stairs 
to  meet  him,  and  hang  upon  his  arm,  and  murmur 
that  she  had  missed  him  dreadfully.  Now  any 

291 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

man,  a  little  tired,  and  quite  hungry,  and  aware 
that  the  soup  is  on  the  table,  who  upon  such  an 
occasion  has  yet  the  presence  of  mind  to  say,  in 
an  impassioned  voice,  "My  Life!"  contributes  to 
an  atmosphere  of  domestic  intensity  which  is  as 
good  as  felicity. 

"Ah,  how  happy  I  am!"  sighs  Annie;  "I  don't 
deserve  it." 

"Beloved,"  he  replies,  in  his  deep,  rich  voice, 
with  an  eye  on  the  dining-room  door,  "what  am 
I,  that  I  should  have  been  so  blessed?  Ah,  my 
wife,  a  man  comes  to  believe  in  a  special  provi 
dence  when  life  is  so  good  to  him."  And,  gently, 
he  leads  her  out  to  dinner. 

"Oh,  Tom,"  she  said,  passionately,  "happiness 
does  make  us  know  divine  things,  doesn't  it?" 
He  shook  his  head  in  a  sort  of  speechless  reverence. 
It  is  too  bad  to  make  fun  of  Tom;  he  was  not 
a  hypocrite;  he  was  simply  an  artist  in  words. 
Indeed,  he  used  words  so  skilfully  that  by  saying 
something  of  the  peacefulness  of  life  and  the 
blessing  of  content,  there  was,  in  his  hearty  praise 
of  his  dinner,  no  jolt  from  ecstasy  to  eating.  Tom 
thought  a  good  deal  about  his  food;  it  is  a  Penn 
sylvania  characteristic. 

"This  salad  is  a  poem,"  he  said.  And  Annie 
gave  thanks  to  Heaven  that  she  had  married  a 
man  so  far  removed  from  mere  material  enjoy 
ment.  Still,  although  devoutly  conscious  of  her 
happiness,  she  remembered  the  unhappiness  of 
others  less  blessed  than  herself.  To  be  sure,  such 

292 


THE   THIEF 

remembrance  may  be  as  mustard  to  our  meat, 
making  us  all  the  more  satisfied  with  our  own 
condition.  But  never  mind  that;  Annie  remem 
bered  it. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think?  Isn't 
it  abominable?  There  is  a  sort  of  movement  on 
foot  to  get  rid  of  Dr.  Lavendar.  Mrs.  Mack 
told  me  about  it  this  afternoon.  Isn't  it  in 
credible  that  there  can  be  baseness  like  that  right 
here  among  us  in  Old  Chester?" 

Tom  looked  up,  frowning. 

"Ah,"  Annie  said,  smiling,  "you  are  the  most 
sympathetic  person!  I  don't  know  anybody  so 
quick  to  feel  injustice  to  others." 

"Well,  injustice  is  the  one  thing  which  is  in 
tolerable  to  me,"  he  said,  warmly. 

"And  to  think  of  that  old  man,  who  has  spent 
his  life  for  us,  being  turned  out,  just  because  he 
is  old-fashioned!"  Annie  went  on,  with  spirit. 
"It's  outrageous!  I  just  said  to  Mrs.  Mack, 
'Well,  Mr.  Hastings  and  I  are  old-fashioned  too/ 
I  knew  how  you  would  feel." 

Tom  drank  his  wine,  and  then  looked  at  his 
glass  intently,  compressing  his  lips. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head,  slowly, 
"the  complaint  is  that  he  does  not  follow  the 
newer  lines  of  church  work.  Wouldn't  it  be  pos 
sible  to  suggest  it  to  him,  and  compromise,  so  to 
speak,  with  the  new  element,  so  that  the  wheels 
of  progress  should  not  go  over  the  old  saint?" 

"How  instantly  you  grasp  the  situation!"  she 
293 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

exclaimed.  "It's  wonderful  to  me — I  think  so 
much  more  slowly.  He  is  an  old  saint,  but  he 
doesn't  want  any  change  in  the  parish  work; 
that's  the  trouble.  Helen  Smith  has  proposed 
several  things,  but  he  snubbed  her  unmercifully. 
No;  compromise  isn't  possible.  The  dear  old 
man  must  have  his  own  way  as  long  as  he  lives. 
Probably  he  won't  live  very  long.  Oh,  Tom,  it's 
such  a  relief  to  know  that  you  will  fight  for  us!" 

"I  am  your  knight,"  he  told  her  (and  they  had 
been  married  two  months!).  But  he  looked  dis 
turbed,  and  she  was  instant  to  throw  off  other 
people's  troubles  because  they  troubled  him. 

"Now  don't  worry  about  it,"  she  said,  as 
they  went  into  the  library.  "I'm  sure  it  will  be 
all  right.  Your  opinion  will  have  the  greatest 
weight,  of  course." 

"I  hate  injustice,"  Tom  murmured,  frowning. 
"I  hate  unkindness;  perhaps  it  is  because  I  am 
so  happy.  Sometimes  I  think  that  happiness 
teaches  us  heavenly  things;  happiness  teaches 
us  goodness." 

The  tears  started  in  her  eyes.  "Oh!"  she  said, 
"how  true  that  is — how  true  and  beautiful !  Tom, 
you  must  write  a  poem  on  that." 

And  she  went  over  to  her  desk  and  took  out  a 
little  note-book,  and  copied  her  husband's  words 
carefully.  Tom  Hastings,  fat,  fatuous,  and  com 
placent,  saw  this  tender  deed,  but  having,  poor 
fellow,  not  the  slightest  sense  of  humor,  he  was 
not  uncomfortable. 

294 


THE   THIEF 

in 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Mr.  Hastings' 
domestic  des  census  Averni.  The  next  step  was 
Judge  Morrison's  fancy  for  rummaging  in  his 
garret  to  find  some  papers.  He  did  not  find  the 
papers,  but  he  found  a  box  of  mildewed  old  books, 
"  Keepsakes"  and  "Gifts"  which  had  belonged, 
back  in  the  dim  past,  to  Hannah,  when  she  was  a 
girl;  they  had  been  packed  into  a  box  and  thrust 
into  the  garret,  to  be  out  of  the  way. 

Theophilus  Morrison  picked  up  one  of  these 
dusty  books  absently,  trying  to  think  where  he 
must  look  next  for  his  papers;  and  then  his  eye 
caught  the  old  steel-plate  frontispiece.  It  was 
the  same  languid,  lovely  lady  at  whom  we  used 
to  look  in  our  mothers'  albums  —  ringlets  on  either 
side  of  the  drooping  oval  face,  enormous  black 
eyes,  rosebud  mouth,  beautiful  arms,  and  wonder 
fully  pointed  finger-tips.  Under  it  was  written, 
in  delicate  script, 


Now  what  demon  possessed  Theophilus  Morrison, 
who  sneered  at  sentiment,  to  glance  at  the  accom 
panying  "Epithalamium,"  which  began, 

See  the  dawn,  the  heaven-sent  dawn! 

Well,  well!  Dr.  Lavendar  once  said  that  The 
ophilus  Morrison's  business  in  life  was  to  prick 
other  people's  bubbles.  "Be  sure  your  poetry 

295 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

will  find  you  out!'*  the  Judge  said  to  himself, 
chuckling.  The  moon-eyed  bride  for  whom,  fifty 
years  or  more  ago,  some  nameless  rhymster 
poured  these  feeble  lines,  had  risen  from  the  dust, 
and  claimed  her  own! 

The  garret  darkened  as  a  summer  thunder- 
shower  suddenly  came  up  and  dashed  against  the 
cobwebbed  windows;  but  Judge  Morrison  sat 
there  on  an  old  cowhide  trunk  and  read  these 
harmless  jingles,  chuckling  and  sneering.  He 
brought  the  book  down  with  him  to  his  library, 
stopping  at  Hannah's  door  and  calling  out  to  her, 
in  his  strident  voice,  to  bring  him  that  driveling 
stuff  of  Tom  Hastings'  that  was  printed  on  satin. 

"You  know  what  I  mean?"  he  said.  "You 
old  maids  always  keep  men's  gush  about  their 
love  affairs." 

Hannah  brought  the  square  of  satin  to  the  li 
brary  and  handed  it  to  him,  her  lean  old  hand 
shaking,  and  her  poor,  frightened  lower  lip  sucked 
in  like  a  child's  who  is  trying  not  to  cry. 

"I  knew  you'd  have  it,"  he  said,  with  his  cruel 
smile.  He  compared  the  two '  'poems, ' '  and  the  result 
was  most  satisfactory — to  him.  Then  he  wrapped 
the  book  and  Tom  Hastings'  epithalamium  up  to 
gether,  and  filed  them  away  for  "future  reference." 

As  for  Mr.  Hastings,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
public  appreciation  of  his  willingness  to  oust 
Dr.  Lavendar  grew  like  some  baleful  mushroom; 
in  vain  he  tried  to  catch  up  with  it,  to  destroy  it ! 
For  a  week  Annie  was  at  home  with  a  cold,  unable 

296 


JUDGE    MORRISON     READ 


THESE     HARMLESS    JINGLES,     CHUCKLING    AND 
SNEERING 


THE   THIEF 

to  see  the  various  kind  friends  who  would  doubtless 
have  mentioned,  casually,  how  glad  they  were  that 
Mr.  Hastings  agreed  with  them  that,  for  the  good 
of  the  parish,  Dr.  Lavendar  ought  to  go.  So  poor 
Tom  got  in  deeper  and  deeper  with  the  opposition ; 
and  every  night,  as  he  sat  by  Annie  and  held  her 
hand,  and  perhaps  read  her  his  verses  or  some 
"thoughts,"  he  got  in  deeper  and  deeper  with  the 
conservatives;  and  he  was  very  wretched.  When 
ever  he  tried  to  hedge  with  Annie,  she  misunder 
stood  him. 

' '  I  feel  that  the  new  element  has  a  certain  amount 
of  reason  in  what  they  say,"  he  would  begin. 

And  she  would  agree  hastily:  "Oh  yes!  I  only 
wish  I  was  as  fair-minded  as  you  are.  Indeed, 
Tom,  your  tenderness  for  Dr.  Lavendar  is  the 
most  beautiful  thing  to  me.  You  are  such  an 
intellectual  giant,  and  yet  you  are  so  patient  with 
him.  Now  you,  being  so  head  and  shoulders 
above  Old  Chester,  might  perhaps  be  expected  to 
be  out  of  patience  with  the  dear  old  man's  poky 
ways;  and  yet  you  are  not.  Your  appreciation  of 
his  courage  in  marrying  that  poor,  silly  little 
Dorothea  to  Oscar  King,  was  so  discriminating." 

"Ah,  well,  love  is  involved  there,"  he  said. 
' '  Perhaps  my  judgment  is  biased.  Love  can  have 
nothing  but  sympathy  for  lovers." 

Annie's  face  lighted.  "Oh,  Tom,  do  write 
something  about  that,"  she  implored  him.  "I 
don't  think  it  has  ever  been  quite  brought  out, 
but  you  can  do  it!" 

297 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"I  can  feel  it,"  he  told  her,  neatly.  And  she 
answered  with  passionate  eyes. 

When  he  tried  to  hedge  with  Helen  Smith,  it 
was  just  the  same. 

"I  am  sorry  for  the  old  man,  though  I  can't 
help  being  out  of  patience  with  his  poky  ways," 
he  said,  with  a  worried  look.  "I  wonder  whether 
some  sort  of  compromise  isn't  possible?" 

"You  are  the  kindest  soul,"  cried  Miss  Smith, 
"and  so  fair-minded!  I'm  afraid  I  forget  his  side 
sometimes;  but  it's  just  as  you  said  yesterday— 
when  it's  a  question  of  the  church  or  the  individ 
ual,  the  individual  must  go  to  the  wall."  Tom 
did  not  remember  that  he  was  responsible  for  this 
remark,  but  it  takes  courage  to  deny  the  parent 
age  of  a  fine  sentiment;  and,  besides,  it  was  true, 
and  if  he  hadn't  said  it,  he  might  have  said  it. 
So  he  agreed,  warmly,  that  he  believed  Miss  Smith 
was  right ;  and  went  home  to  sit  by  poor,  feverish 
Annie  in  a  very  miserable  frame  of  mind.  At 
least  until  he  remembered  to  read  her  his  sonnet 
upon  "Love's  Sympathy  for  Lovers."  Annie 
drew  such  deep  and  beautiful  meanings  from  it 
that  Tom  glowed  with  happiness. 

He  had  not  known  how  great  he  was. 


IV 


That  the  husband  and  wife  should  come  to 
what   is   called    "an   understanding"    on   parish 

298 


THE   THIEF 

matters  was  of  course  inevitable,  and  just  for  the 
first  few  minutes  painful. 

Some  one  happened  to  mention  to  Annie  how 
pleased  the  new  Smiths  were  with  Tom's  sympathy 
in  the  movement  to  get  rid  of  Dr.  Lavendar. 
Annie,  exclaiming  and  denying,  announced  proud 
ly  Tom's  fine  allegiance  to  the  old  minister.  Helen 
Smith  was  quoted,  then  appealed  to  (the  bomb 
exploded  at  the  meeting  of  the  sewing  society,  so 
all  the  new  people  were  on  hand) ;  and  her  asser 
tion  that  Mr.  Hastings  had  said  "that  Dr.  Lav 
endar  ought  to  resign,"  closed  Annie's  lips.  She 
went  home  very  white.  There  was  a  hard  look 
in  her  face  when  she  confronted  Tom,  and  a  curi 
ous  sort  of  fright  in  her  eyes.  But  it  was  over 
soon — Tom  was  hurt  that  he  should  have  been 
misunderstood;  he  was  amazed  at  the  stupidity 
of  the  new  people. 

"Of  course  I  wanted  to  help  them,"  he  said. 
"I  told  them  I  thought  we  might  compromise  in 
some  way — " 

"They  said  you  proposed  a  compromise,"  she 
began. 

"I  told  them,"  he  said,  with  a  mild  scorn  for 
his  traducers,  "that  we  must  do  the  best  for  the 
church,  not  for  individuals;  we  must  not  think 
of  ourselves — " 

Annie  lifted  her  head.     Her  eyes  were  anxious, 
but  they  began  to  glow.     Not  think  of  ourselves: 
that  was  like  Tom!     "Yes,"  she  said,  "but  they 
thought  you  meant — " 
20  299 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Well,"  he  interrupted,  coldly,  "I  am  not  re 
sponsible  for  what  they  thought.  But  that  you — 
Ah,  well,  never  mind!  I  ought  to  have  lived  long 
enough  not  to  concern  myself  with  other  people's 
thoughts." 

She  bit  her  lip;  she  was  trembling  to  throw  her 
self  into  his  arms;  her  mind  was  alert  to  adjust 
the  indirectness  of  the  actual  Tom  with  the  frank 
ness  of  the  ideal  Tom.  "I  see!  I  see!"  she  said, 
with  passion;  "it  is  your  kindness  to  them, 
as  well  as  to  Dr.  Lavendar,  that  they  have  mis 
understood.  Tom,  you  are  noble!  Oh,  my  dear, 
forgive  me!  You  are  so  straightforward  that  you 
trust  people;  but  you  are  so  subtle  and  so  just,  in 
looking  at  every  side,  that  they  misunderstand  you. 
I  believe  those  people  are  temperamentally  unable 
to  understand  any  point  of  view  not  their  own!" 

She  hung  upon  him,  humble  and  exulting  and 
entreating,  all  at  once.  By  some  curious  process 
of  love,  she  had  draped  beauty  and  honor  upon 
her  lay-figure,  and  was  perfectly  satisfied.  As  for 
Tom,  he  forgave  her. 

Annie's  letter  to  Helen  Smith  in  this  connection 
was  a  masterpiece:  she  excused  everybody;  she 
blamed  no  one;  she  was  tenderly  jocose  at  "Tom's 
invincible  desire  to  be  just  to  both  sides,"  which 
had  led  to  Helen's  "most  natural  mistake." 

Tom,  however,  proposed  that  they  should  go 
away  from  Old  Chester  for  a  while.  But  Annie 
shook  her  head : 

"I  don't  wonder  you  want  to  get  away  from  it 
300 


THE   THIEF 

all;  you  are  a  perfect  thermometer,  in  your  sensi 
tiveness  to  anything  mean!  And  I  can  imagine 
just  how  disgusted  you  are  at  the  narrowness  and 
literalness  of  these  people.  But,  as  you  say,  we 
must  do  the  big  thing;  we  must  let  them  see  just 
what  our  position  is."  Then  Tom  said,  peremp 
torily,  that  he  would  not  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  the  matter. 

"I  suppose  I  am  too  sensitive,"  he  said,  frown 
ing,  "but  I  do  hate  to  be  mixed  up  in  such  affairs." 
Annie  did  not  urge  him. 

"After  all,  there  is  no  use  using  razors  to  chop 
down  trees.  It  needs  a  coarser  fiber  than  you 
have,  to  deal  with  coarse-minded  people." 

Even  Tom  was  a  little  startled  by  such  an  ad 
jective  in  relation  to  the  estimable  Hayes,  new 
Smiths,  et  al.  But  he  did  not  discuss  the  mat 
ter;  he  only  went  about  for  two  days,  not  taking 
much  interest  in  his  food,  and  looking  a  little  sad 
and  absent,  and  making  Annie's  heart  ache  over 
her  own  unkindness. 

As  for  the  side  Tom  had  deserted,  discussion 
raged;  and  Mr.  Hastings,  who  was  a  thermometer 
of  sensitiveness,  was  quick  to  feel  the  drop  in  the 
village  temperature  towards  himself.  But  the  do 
mestic  temperature  was  perhaps  more  deliciously 
warm  than  before;  and  as  the  autumn  evenings 
began  to  close,  dusk  and  crisp  and  full  of  the 
scent  of  fallen  leaves,  it  was  delightful  to  sit  by 
the  library  fire,  with  Annie's  hand  in  his,  and  read 
her  his  poems  and  listen  to  the  meanings  which 

301 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

she  discovered  in  them.  She  was  very  anxious  that 
he  should  publish  his  verses;  she  said,  in  fact, 
that  such  publication  would  commit  him  to  litera 
ture,  and  that  was  what  she  wanted.  "Litera 
ture  is  your  vocation,  Tom.  You  must  work  for 
the  world  in  books,"  she  said;  and  then  told  him, 
her  sweet  eyes  smiling  at  him  in  the  firelight,  that, 
also,  she  believed  he  could  make  money  by  writ 
ing.  ''You  are  superior  to  such  a  low  motive, 
you  old  idealist,"  she  said,  gaily;  "so  I  have  to 
be  the  practical  one,  and  remind  you  of  it." 

"Well,  I  suppose  a  successful  book  is  a  good 
thing,  as  far  as  money  goes,"  he  agreed;  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  that." 

"Of  course  you  hadn't!'*  she  jeered.  "A  man 
whose  sense  of  honor  makes  him  fail  in  business 
would  not  be  apt  to  think  of  it."  She  gave  him 
an  adoring  look. 

"Well,"  Tom  confessed,  "business  is  not  my 
forte.  I  am  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  a  con 
science — which  will  keep  us  from  ever  being  rich, 
I  fear,  my  beloved.  So  perhaps  you  are  right; 
perhaps  I  have  got  to  do  my  work  to  raise  hu 
manity  with  my  pen  as  a  lever." 

" Work  to  raise  humanity"  she  repeated,  her 
face  growing  serious.  "Oh,  Tom  dear,  when  I 
see  how  you  feel  the  responsibility  of  life,  it  makes 
me  feel  ashamed  of  my  own  little,  selfish  views. 
Yes;  you  must  write!  I  only  wish  the  people  in 
Old  Chester  were  in  the  least  intellectual.  It 
would  be  so  good  for  you  to  have  the  stimulus  of 

302 


THE   THIEF 

some  really  vital  thought.  They  are  dears,  you 
know,  but  they  can't  be  called  intellectual." 

"Well,  hardly,"  said  Tom,  smiling. 

"The  only  person  here  with  any  mind  to  speak 
of,"  Annie  said,  thoughtfully,  "is  Judge  Morri 
son.  I  have  never  liked  him  very  much,  he  is  so 
grim;  but  I  must  say  he  has  a  mind.  I  think 
even  you  would  find  him  interesting;  and  in 
tellectually  he  is  away  ahead  of  anybody  in  Old 
Chester.  I  think  he  would  realize  what  you  are, 
if  he  only  knew  you." 

Tom  said  he  thought  that  the  Judge  was  a 
strong  character.  "What  a  forlorn  life,  though, 
for  a  scholarly  man !  No  companion  but  that  poor 
foolish  old  sister.  Why  don't  you  ask  him  to 
come  to  dinner  some  time,  Annie?  It  would  be 
only  kind." 

"It's  like  a  school  of  ethics  to  live  with  a  poet," 
Annie  declared,  laughing.  "Of  course  I  will  ask 
him,  but  I  should  never  have  been  nice  enough  to 
think  of  such  a  thing." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  talk  to  him  about  my  poe 
try,"  Tom  commanded,  good-naturedly. 

Annie  laughed  with  joy,  and  told  him  he  was  a 
modest  old  goose;  and  certainly  a  part  of  her 
affectionate  assertion  was  true.  After  that  they 
were  silent  for  a  while,  sitting  there  before  the  fire 
— Tom,  who  had  a  good  digestion,  reflecting  upon 
the  very  good  dinner  which  he  had  just  eaten, 
and  Annie  thinking  of  Judge  Morrison.  After 
all,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  invite  him; 

303 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

he  would  be  sure  to  appreciate  Tom;  and  though 
Judge  Morrison  was  not  loved  in  Old  Chester,  he 
was  respected,  so  his  good  opinion  was  not  to  be 
despised.  Alas!  poor  Annie  had  been  forced  to 
admit  that  since  Tom  had  backed  and  filled  about 
Dr.  Lavendar,  Old  Chester  was  certainly  colder 
towards  him. 

"I  feel  it,"  he  told  her.  "I  am  as  sensitive  as 
a  thermometer  to  coldness." 

"Don't  mind  it;  they  are  not  worth  minding," 
Annie  had  said,  angrily.  But  Tom  did  mind  it, 
and  so  he  became  more  smiling  and  cordial  and 
flattering  than  ever. 

"Oh,  if  he  only  wouldn't  be  so  pleasant!"  Ger 
trude    Mack    confided    to    her    mother.     "Why 
can't  he  be  just  polite,  like  other  people?     But 
he  is  so  disgustingly  pleasant!"     Annie  did  not, 
of  course,  have  an  idea  of  any  such  unreasonable 
ness;   but  she  knew  that  Old  Chester — poor,  nar 
row-minded,  stupid  Old  Chester!    did  not  appre 
ciate  Tom;  and  as  it  looked  as  though  they  would 
have  to  spend  the  winter  there  (Tom's  exigent 
conscience  still  preventing  him  from  securing  any 
business  position),  it  was  certainly  desirable  that 
some  one  should  make  people  see  what  manner  of 
man  they  were  ignoring.     ' '  When  they  know  him !' ' 
she  thought,   passionately;    and  said   to  herself 
something  about  "entertaining  angels  unawares." 
From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  she  was  very  far 
gone.     Why  Judge  Morrison  should  be  more  apt 
to  recognize  angels  than  other  folks  Annie  did  not 

304 


THE   THIEF 

say ;  but  she  believed  it  would  be  well  to  cultivate 
him.  So  the  invitation  was  sent  and  accepted, 
and  the  Judge  came. 

The  host,  whose  geniality  was  always  aggressive, 
and  the  hostess,  who  felt  all  the  emotion  of  a 
good  deed,  were  bubbling  over  with  kindness. 
The  Judge  made  himself  agreeable,  and  never 
showed  his  fangs  in  one  of  his  wicked  old  laughs. 
But  how  he  watched  them ! 

Annie  found  him  a  most  attentive  and  courte 
ous  listener  when  she  talked  about  her  husband 
— or  tried  to  make  him  talk  about  himself. 

"I  want  him  to  write  a  book,  Judge  Morrison," 
she  said. 

"Well,  you  will  have  to  keep  him  up  to  his 
duties,  Mrs.  Hastings,"  the  Judge  declared.  "Lit 
erary  men  are  lazy,  you  know."  The  allusion 
gave  Annie  her  opportunity,  and  in  she  rushed 
where  angels  might  well  have  feared  to  tread. 

"Tom  isn't  lazy;  indeed,  he  insists,"  she  com 
plained,  gaily,  "upon  writing  all  the  morning,  in 
stead  of  entertaining  me.  He  has  just  finished  a 
most  beautiful  thing.  I  wish  he  would  read  it  to 
you.  (Now,  Tom,  be  quiet!  I  will  speak  of  it.) 
He's  perfectly  absurd,  Judge  Morrison;  he  won't 
let  me  talk  about  his  poems." 

Of  course  the  Judge  deprecated  such  modesty — 
"Unless  the  poems  are  too  deep  for  the  casual 
listener?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Tom  protested,  kindly;  "not  at 
all,  I'm  sure." 

305 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"When  did  you  first  publish?"  the  Judge  said, 
meditatively.  "Let  me  see — the  'Epithalamium' 
is  in  a  collection  I  have,  but  I'm  ashamed  to  say 
I've  forgotten  the  date;  you  must  have  been 
quite  young,  and— 

Annie  and  Tom  were  both  exclaiming;  but 
Theophilus  Morrison  went  on,  with  the  greatest 
urbanity : 

"Have  you  not  a  volume  of  your  husband's 
poems  at  hand,  Mrs.  Hastings?" 

The  protest  that  Tom  had  not  published  a  book 
("would  not  publish  a  book,"  Annie  put  it), 
caused  the  guest  great  surprise — "and  regret  as 
well.  Still,  you  cannot  escape  fame,  Mr.  Hast 
ings.  Your  'Epithalamium,'  in  the  collection  of 
which  I  spoke,  is  a  proof  of  it.  Or  is  it  a  case  of 
infringement  of  copyright?  Come,  come,  that  is 
in  my  dry-as-dust  line.  We  poor  lawyers  have 
no  poetry  in  us,  but  the  excuse  for  our  exis 
tence  is  to  protect  the  rights  of  you  unpractical 
poets." 

Annie  was  greatly  excited.  "Tom,  somebody 
has  stolen  the  'Epithalamium'!  No,  Judge  Mor 
rison,  it  was  never  printed.  My  husband  has  a 
peculiar  reticence  and  reserve  about  such  things. 
(Tom,  I  will  speak!)  I  hope  he  is  going  to  pub 
lish  a  book  this  winter,  but  he  has  always  been 
absurdly  modest  about  his  literary  work.  You 
see,  it  is  quite  evident  that  some  wretched  person 
has  stolen  it.  What  is  the  collection?  How  did 
the  thief  get  hold  of  it?  Perhaps  the  satin  sheet 

306 


THE   THIEF 

was  stolen  from  some  one  who  came  to  the  wed 
ding — oh,  what  a  wretch!" 

Annie's  eyes  shone  with  anger,  and  she  breathed 
tremulously.  Tom  frowned  and  protested : ' '  Don't, 
Annie;  I  beg  of  you!  I  don't  mind  in  the  least — " 

"I  mind!"  Annie  said,  valiantly.  "Judge  Mor 
rison,  tell  me  the  name  of  the  collection,  please. 
Has  it  just  been  published?" 

"No;  oh  no!"  the  Judge  said.  "I  really  didn't 
observe  the  date.  It  seemed  rather  an  old  book, 
but  I  did  not  look  for  the  date." 

Annie's  wrath  collapsed.  "Oh,  then  it  can't 
be.  Tom  only  wrote  it,  you  know,  last  summer." 

"Really?"  the  Judge  said,  looking  puzzled. 
"Ah,  well,  perhaps  I  am  mistaken;  but  I'll  send 
you  the  little  volume,  and— 

"No,  no!"  his  host  insisted.  "Please  don't 
think  of  taking  so  much  trouble.  It  isn't  of  the 
slightest  importance,  I  assure  you.  Pray  don't — " 

"Oh,  no  trouble  at  all,  Mr.  Hastings.  De 
lighted  to  be  of  service  to  Mrs.  Hastings.  So 
long  as  it  is  not  plagiarism,  she  will  be  entertained 
by  my  mistake." 

He  was  so  agreeable  for  the  rest  of  the  evening 
that  Annie  said  afterwards  it  only  showed  the  effect 
of  kindness,  even  on  a  crabbed,  hard  nature  like 
his.  "How  he  blossomed  out!"  she  said,  when 
the  door  closed  on  the  Judge.  "Poor  old  dear! 
It  has  done  him  good.  How  lovely  it  was  in  you 
to  think  of  it,  Tom!" 

Tom  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
307 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

sharply,  that  he  wished  that  that  woman  of 
Annie's,  in  the  kitchen,  wouldn't  spoil  her  soups 
by  putting  so  much  wine  in  them.  "  Might  as 
well  drink  cooking-sherry  at  once  as  take  her  clear 
soup." 

Annie  looked  at  him  in  astonishment;  why 
should  he  call  the  cook  "hers ' '  in  that  way  ?  (Annie 
had  not  been  married  long  enough  to  know  that 
the  cook  is  always  "hers"  when  the  dinner  is  not 
good.)  Tom  was  evidently  displeased,  which  was 
unlike  him.  She  lay  awake  thinking  about  it  a 
good  while,  troubled  and  perplexed,  trying  to  ad 
just  bad  temper  to  a  noble  soul.  She  was  not  at 
all  hurt;  she  was  so  sure  that  there  was  some 
good  reason  behind  the  unreasonable  words;  and 
by  and  by,  in  a  flash,  she  found  it,  and  laughed  a 
little,  silently,  to  herself: — Tom  had  felt  slighted 
because  she  had  talked  too  much  to  the  Judge! 
He  had  missed  their  tranquil,  tender  evening  by 
the  fireside.  He  was  not  jealous — of  course  not; 
jealousy  is  stupid  and  ignoble — but  he  had  cer 
tainly  felt  slighted.  She  smiled  to  herself,  with 
a  warm  glow  in  her  heart,  and  leaned  over  and 
kissed  him.  "You  old  stupid,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  "as  if  he,  or  any  other  man,  is  good  enough 
to  black  your  boots!" 


Of  course  the  little  battered  copy  of  The  Bride 
was  a  bombshell.  As  for  the  explosion,  there  is 
no  use  going  into  that;  it  is  too  unpleasant. 

308 


THE   THIEF 

When  husbands  and  wives  fall  out,  the  best  thing 
the  bystanders  can  do  is  to  put  their  fingers 
in  their  ears  and  look  for  a  door — a  mouse-hole ! 

In  this  instance,  when  the  first  bang  and  crash 
were  over,  two  white  and  terrified  people  looked 
at  each  other,  and  each  believed  that,  so  far  as 
their  happiness  was  concerned,  the  end  of  the 
world  had  come. 

"Don't  you  see?"  Annie  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"It  means,  I  did  not  marry — you.'1 

"Ah,  my  wife,"  Tom  stammered,  "must  you 
always  misjudge  me — I,  who  would  die  for  your 
happiness?"  He  tried,  poor  fellow,  to  assume  his 
grand  manner,  but  all  in  vain;  he  was  like  a 
drenched  and  dripping  rooster,  trying  to  crow  in 
the  rain.  "I — I  think  you  are  rather  mean,  An 
nie,  to  accuse  me  in  this  way." 

Well!  well!  What  was  going  to  become  of 
them?  Annie's  ideal  had  suddenly  shifted  and 
revealed  the  reality.  The  drapery  of  truth  and 
nobility,  the  cloth  of  golden  honor,  the  jewels  of 
poetic  thought,  slipped  off — and  there  was  the 
poor,  lean,  jointed  wooden  figure  on  which  all 
these  fine  things  had  been  draped! 

"You  are  not  true.  You  were  not  true  about 
Dr.  Lavendar;  I  see  that  now.  It's  part  of  the 
same  thing.  I  think  perhaps  you  are — a  coward. 
It  isn't  that  I  care  that  you  didn't  write  the  poem; 
it  is  that  you  are  not — you."  Then  she  went 
away  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  room. 

309 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

Tom  roved  about,  wretched,  hungry  (for  to  eat 
at  such  a  moment  would  have  been  an  artistic 
insult  to  the  situation),  and  really  frightened. 
Besides,  he  was  very  unhappy.  There  is  nothing 
which  is  such  killing  pain  as  to  realize  that  one 
who  loves  us  is  unjust  to  us;  and  in  his  timid 
mind  Tom  Hastings  knew  that  his  wife  was  unjust 
to  him.  For,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  is 
there  anything  more  unjust  than  to  build  gold 
and  brass  and  iron  on  poor,  well-meaning  clay, — 
and  then  blame  the  clay  when  the  whole  image 
falls  into  dust?  To  be  sure,  Tom  did  not  know 
he  was  clay;  but  he  suffered,  all  the  same,  at  the 
injustice  which  was  done  him. 

When  Annie,  in  her  own  room,  shut  her  door 
upon  her  husband,  she  stood  leaning  against  it, 
shivering  and  bewildered. 

.  .  .  Tom  had  not  written  the  "Epithalamium"; 
he  had  not  been  straightforward  about  Dr.  Laven- 
dar.  ...  A  multitude  of  shadowy  deceits  began  to 
close  in  upon  her — a  sentence  twisted  to  some 
other  than  its  obvious  meaning — an  assent  that 
was  explained  as  a  dissent.  .  .  . 

Annie  put  her  hands  up  to  her  head  and  tried 
to  steady  herself,  for  indeed  it  seemed  as  though 
the  earth  moved  under  her  feet.     Her  husband  was 
noble,  he  was  loyal,  he  was  an  idealist  with  the 
purest  moral  perceptions,  and — he  had  lied.     How 
was  she  going  to  adjust  these  things  ?    They  must 
be  adjusted,  or  else- 
She  walked  restlessly  about  the  room,  twisting 
310 


THE   THIEF 

her  hands  nervously  together.  "What  am  I  go 
ing  to  do?"  she  kept  saying  to  herself.  She 
stopped  once  at  her  desk,  and  picked  up  a  letter 
and  glanced  at  it  with  absent  eyes;  it  was  from 
the  "poor  Smiths'"  girl,  who  was  "studying  art" 
on  the  inspiration  of  Annie's  belief  in  her:  "Did 
Mrs.  Hastings  think  she  had  best  take  a  course, 
now,  in  this,  or  that,  or  the  other?"  Annie  turned 
the  letter  over  and  looked  at  the  date;  it  was 
nearly  a  month  old,  and  was  still  unanswered. 
"Why  should  he  have  deceived  me?"  she  said  to 
herself;  "what  was  the  object?"  Even  as  she 
read  the  letter,  it  slipped  from  her  mind  and  was 
again  forgotten. 

That  was  a  very  bad  day  for  Annie.  Tom 
knocked  once  at  the  door,  and  she  said,  in  a  muf 
fled  voice,  "Go  away,  please,"  and  poor  Tom  went 
down-stairs  miserably;  and  looking  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  seeing  no  worshiper,  took  a  good  two 
fingers  of  whisky,  after  which  he  was  temporarily 
cheered.  But  another  day  passed;  still  Annie 
kept  to  herself.  By  that  time  Tom  was  thorough 
ly  scared.  So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  and  see 
Dr.  Lavendar.  Advice  he  had  to  have ;  this  kind 
of  thing  couldn't  go  on. 

He  went  that  night.  Dr.  Lavendar  was  not 
at  home;  and  Tom,  looking  lantern-jawed  and 
sunken-eyed,  sat  and  waited  for  him.  The  wait 
ing  made  him  more  and  more  nervous;  and  poor 
Tom,  being  the  kind  of  man  who  expresses  his 
emotion  by  tears  (and  is  thought  the  better  of 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

by  ladies  on  account  of  his  " fineness"),  was 
tremulously  near  weeping.  Perhaps  it  was  as 
well,  for  it  made  him  quicker  to  leave  his  high 
horse  and  come  down  to  facts.  He  was  a  little 
jaunty  at  first  with  the  old  clergyman,  a  little 
inclined  to  be  indirect,  but  he  was  too  genuinely 
miserable  to  keep  it  up  long. 

1  'Women  are  so  sweetly  unreasonable  some 
times,"  he  began,  "and  though  Annie  is  the  most 
charming  of  her  sex,  she  is  a  woman,  you  know. 
The  fact  is  she  is  a  bit  offended  at  me,  and  I  really 
think  I'll  have  to  call  you  in  as  a  mediator,  Dr. 
Lavendar." 

"Ho!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar.  "Take  a  pipe,  man, 
and  don't  fash  yourself.  Mediator?  Do  you 
want  me  to  put  my  head  between  the  upper  and 
nether  millstones?" 

Tom  smiled  feebly.  "Annie  is  terribly  offended 
at  me,"  he  said,  his  chin  quivering;  "I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

The  old  clergyman  looked  at  him  gravely. 
"Do  ye  deserve  it?"  he  said. 

Tom,  summoning  a  pleasantly  jocose  air, 
smiled,  and  protested  that  he  supposed  nobody 
was  perfect;  and  perhaps  he — well,  Dr.  Laven 
dar  knew  that  to  be  great  was  to  be  misunder 
stood  ! 

"The  fact  is,  Annie  has  misunderstood  me  in  a 
little  matter." 

"So  you're  great,  are  you?"  the  old  man  said, 
good-humoredly . 

312 


THE   THIEF 

"Oh,  well,  never  mind  that,"  Tom  answered, 
serious  and  anxious,  yet  speaking  kindly. 

Dr.  Lavendar  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 
and  looked  at  him. 

"Well,  well!"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Tom  went  on,  his  face  clouding;  "it 
all  came  out  of  a  misunderstanding;  but  Annie 
has  made  herself  very  unhappy  over  it — and  I 
would  die  rather  than  cause  Annie  any  unhappi- 
ness.  What  is  my  life  good  for  but  to  make  her 
happy?" 

The  clergyman  was  silent. 

"The  fact  is — well,  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell 
you"  —  Mr.  Hastings'  embarrassment  made  his 
face  red — "it  is  so  absurd.  Such  a  tempest  in  a 
teapot!  and  it  has  all  grown  out  of  a  bit  of  for- 
getfulness  on  my  part.  I  never  supposed  that 
she  was  so — absurd!"  An  edge  of  irritation  broke 
through  his  embarrassment  and  helped  him  on  in 
his  explanation.  Dr.  Lavendar  did  not  help  him 
at  all. 

"You  see,  the  way  it  was — you  know,  of  course, 
that  I  write  poetry?  Well,  things  strike  me  in 
very  original  ways  sometimes  (of  course  my 
poems  are  entirely  original);  but  just  before  I 
was  married  I  came  across  some  verses  on  mar 
riage — a  marriage  ode,  so  to  speak — they  are 
called  epithalamiums, ' '  he  explained,  kindly ; — '  'and 
I  copied  it  for  Annie,  making  a  few  changes,  just 
to  make  it  more  apt,  so  to  speak.  I  was  so  pressed 
for  time  just  then  that  I  couldn't  write  a  proper 

313 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

one,  as  I  meant  to.  I  was  going  to  tell  Annie 
how  I  had  copied  it  for  her,  but  she  unfortunately 
found  it  in  my  note-book,  and,  very  foolishly, 
supposed  it  was  mine.  I'm  sure,  if  I  couldn't 
write  better  poetry  than  that  I  should  give  up 
literature !  Well,  the  awkward  thing  was  that  be 
fore  I  knew  it  she  had  shown  it  to  two  or  three 
people.  Of  course  when  she  told  me  I  wras  very 
much  annoyed.  I  knew  it  would  embarrass  her 
to  explain  to  people  that  she'd  made  a  mistake, 
don't  you  know? — especially  as  she  had  actually 
gone  and  had  the  thing  printed  on  satin  without 
saying  anything  to  me  about  it.  You  see,  it 
really  was  very  awkward." 

Dr.  Lavendar  nodded.  "It  was  awkward." 
"Of  course  I  meant  to  explain  as  soon  as  I  got 
the  chance;  but  she  was  always  talking  about  it 
and  praising  it — it  seemed  as  if  I  never  could 
get  the  chance!  I  hope  I  don't  need  to  tell  you 
I  meant  to  explain?  But  I  overlooked  it;  or, 
rather,  I  never  seemed  to  find  the  right  moment. 
You  understand?"  he  ended,  in  that  warm,  in 
timate  tone  which  almost  always  moved  women, 
but  had  a  curiously  irritating  effect  on  men. 
•  "I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said; 
"it  merely  seems  to  me  that  you  Deceived  your 
wife." 

"Deceived!"  Tom  said,  hotly.  "I  don't  see 
how  you  make  that  out !  I  was  careless,  I  admit ; 
but  isn't  everybody  careless  once  in  a  while?  As 
for  deceiving  her — well,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a 


THE   THIEF 

great  poet,  but  I  must  say,  if  I  couldn't  do  better 
than  that  thing — !  No;  it  was  merely  a  matter 
of  opportunity.  I  intended  to  explain  it  to  her, 
but  she  was  always  telling  me  how  beautiful  it 
was,  and  all  that,  and — " 

"Is  there  anything  else?"  Dr.  Lavendar  inter 
rupted  him. 

"Well,  this  confounded  parish  misunderstand 
ing,"  Mr.  Hastings  said,  angrily;  "she's  brought 
that  up  again.  I  swear,  Dr.  Lavendar,  women 
are—" 

"What  parish  misunderstanding?" 

"Well — why,  you  know — "  Tom  began,  but 
suddenly  floundered.  "Oh,  well,  the  Smiths  and 
those  people  are  fussing  over  some  trouble,  and  I 
think  they  misunderstood  my  attitude  slightly ;  of 
course  I  feel,  with  Annie,  the  warmest  regard — 
but  —  well,  Annie  doesn't  seem  to  understand, 
and—" 

"What  is  the  parish  trouble?"  the  old  minister 
said.  "I  don't  know  of  any  parish  trouble. 
What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  some  nonsense  the  new  people  have  been 
talking,"  Tom  answered,  hastily.  "But  Annie 
couldn't  see  why  I  didn't  say  all  I  thought  to 
everybody.  She  can't  understand  that  reserve 
which  is  the  characteristic  of  the  artistic  tempera 
ment.  And  justice.  I  am  a  very  fair-minded 
man,  Dr.  Lavendar;  I  can  see  the  new  people's 
side,  and  I  can  see  the  other  side.  And  I  listen 
to  both  sides." 

21  315 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

"That's  fair;   that's  fair." 

"Yes,"  Tom  agreed,  warmly;  "I  think  that, 
whatever  else  I  may  be,  I  am  fair.  I  am  a  per 
fect  thermometer  in  my  sensitiveness  to  any 
thing  like  injustice;  so  I  was  willing  to  hear 
both  sides.  But  Annie  feels  now  that  I  didn't 
make  my  opinions  clear.  But  I  couldn't  be 
responsible  for  other  people's  stupidity!"  he  ended, 
impatiently. 

"Annie  seems  to  think,  then,  that  your  opinion 
on  this  matter,  whatever  it  is,  is  important?"  Dr. 
Lavendar  said. 

"Well,  yes,  she  does.  I  think  she  exaggerates 
it  a  little;  in  fact" — he  dropped  into  his  con 
fidential  and  intimate  tone — ' '  I  tell  her  she  thinks 
too  well  of  me." 

"I  suppose  that's  the  whole  trouble,"  Dr. 
Lavendar  said,  ruminatingly. 

Tom  hesitated,  not  quite  catching  the  sense  of 
the  remark.  "The  trouble?  Well,  it's  just  the 
feminine  inability  to  grasp  the  masculine  atti 
tude  towards  things.  Annie  is  temperamentally 
unable  to  understand  any  point  of  view  not  her 
own." 

"Ho!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"But  what  in  the  world  am  I  going  to  do?"  the 
anxious  husband  went  on.  '  *  Why — Dr.  Lavendar, 
she — she  won't  see  me!"  He  fairly  broke  down  at 
that,  and  fumbled  in  his  pockets  in  a  way  that 
made  Dr.  Lavendar  say,  "Here!  take  mine,"  and 
pretend  not  to  see  him. 

316 


THE   THIEF 

Tom  mopped  his  eyes,  and  Dr.  Lavendar  got 
up;  he  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  filled 
it  slowly,  stuffing  the  tobacco  down  into  the  bowl 
with  his  stubborn  old  thumb;  then  he  lighted  it, 
pulled  his  coat-tails  forward  under  his  arms,  and 
thrust  his  hands  down  into  his  pockets. 

''Well,  sir,  as  I  understand  it,  Annie  has  a  very 
high  opinion  of  you?" 

"Dr.  Lavendar,"  Tom  said,  earnestly,  "don't 
think  I  am  finding  fault  with  my  wife  for  lack  of 
appreciation.  I  am  perfectly  ready  to  admit  that 
she  means  to  be  appreciative.  It  is  only  that— 
that  she  can't  seem  to  see—  His  voice  trailed 
off  miserably. 

"She  thinks  you  are  a  fine  fellow?"  the  old 
clergyman  said,  with  a  keen  look. 
Tom  looked  modest. 

"When  she's  told  you  so,  you  let  it  pass,  didn't 
you?" 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,  I  am  always  telling  her 
she  thinks  too  well  of  me— 

"And  when  you  tell  her  she  thinks  too  well  of 
you,  she  tells  you  that  you  are  too  humble  ?  Hey  ? 
doesn't  she?" 

"Well,  yes,"  Tom  admitted. 
"And  the  more  you  protest,    the  better  she 
thinks  of  you?     And  when  you  want  cakes  and 
ale,  she  thinks  you  ask  for  virtue?" 

Tom  drew  his  handsome  brows  together  in  a 
puzzled  way.  "I'm  a  perfectly  abstemious 
man — " 

317 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Ha!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar.  "Well,  well;  that's 
a  point  in  your  favor,  I'm  sure.  I  suppose,  now, 
Hastings,  you  always  try  to  see  what  Annie  likes 
or  approves,  and  you  like  and  approve  it,  too? 
To  please  her,  you  know?" 

"Yes";  Tom  agreed,  eagerly,  "I've  always 
done  everything  I  could  to  please  her;  and  it's 
a  little  unkind  that  she  can't  trust  me  now." 

"Annie  is  rather  taken  up  with  philanthropy 
nowadays,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  thoughtfully,  "and 
I  think  I've  heard  you  talk  a  little  about  it?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Tom  agreed,  absently;  and  added 
something  about  "working  for  humanity,"  but 
Dr.  Lavendar  did  not  notice  it. 

"You've  been  interested  in  all  her  projects, 
haven't  you?  You've  been  sympathetic  about 
Esther  Smith's  career,  when  perhaps  the  rest  of 
us  have  been  rather  cross  about  it?  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  ever  told  her  you  were  tired  of  Esther? 
Well,  that's  been  very  pleasant  for  Annie;  I'm 
sure  of  that — I'm  sure  of  that!" 

Tom  began  to  brighten  up.  "I'm  glad  you  see 
my  side  of  it,  sir." 

"I  suppose  you  never  told  your  wife  a  story 
that  wasn't  just  fit  for  a  lady's  ears?"  Dr. 
Lavendar  went  on,  putting  his  pipe  into  the 
other  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  nodding  his 
white  head. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  not,"  Tom  answered,  warmly. 

"Well,  why  not?"  Dr.  Lavendar  inquired.  Mr. 
Hastings  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 


THE   THIEF 

"Why,  Annie  wouldn't  like  it!" 

"I  suppose  you  know  one  or  two,  though?"  the 
minister  said.  Tom's  face  dropped  into  sudden 
lines  of  mean  mirth. 

"Well,  I  could  tell  you — "  he  began. 

"You  needn't,"  Dr.  Lavendar  broke  in.  "I 
knew  you  had  some  on  hand.  Well,  now,  you 
haven't  stayed  away  from  church  on  Sundays,  be 
cause  Annie  wouldn't  like  you  to?" 

"No,  she  wouldn't  like  it,"  Tom  agreed;  "not 
but  what  I'm  delighted  to  hear  you  preach, 


sir." 


"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  the  clergyman  said,  and 
was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"You  see,"  Tom  said,  "it's  just  what  I  told 
you — I've  done  everything  to  please  her." 

"I  believe  you  have,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar — "I 
believe  you  have."  He  paused,  and  looked  at 
Tom,  drawing  his  lips  in,  and  frowning.  "Mr. 
Hastings,  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  whole 
trouble?" 

"I  wish  you  would,"  Tom  said,  in  a  dispirited 
way.  "As  you  see,  I've  left  nothing  undone  to 
please  Annie,  yet  just  see  how  she  treats  me!" 

"Well,"  the  minister  began,  slowly,  "she's  the 
one  to  blame." 

"I  knew  you'd  say  that,"  Tom  said,  eagerly. 

"She's  entirely  to  blame.  And  there's  only  one 
way  to  set  this  matter  right — tell  her  so." 

"Well,  doesn't  that  seem  a  little  severe?"  Tom 
remonstrated,  hopefully.  "You  know  I  was  for- 

319 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

getful.     I  didn't  remember  to  explain  the — the 
accident  about  the  epithalamium." 

"I  wouldn't  go  into  that,  if  I  were  you,"  Dr. 
Lavendar  said,  mildly.  ''I'd  go  home  and  face 
her  with  her  own  fault.  I  tell  you,  man,  if  you 
can  do  it,  there's  hope  for  you  both;  if  you  can't, 
I'm  afraid  there  are  darker  days  ahead  of  you." 

"You  think  I  ought  to  show  her  how  unreason 
able  she  is?" 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  and  stand  up  like  a 
man  and  say  to  her:  'Look  here;  this  has  got  to 
stop,  this  foolish  and  wicked  business.  Now  listen 
to  me,' — this  is  what  I'd  say,  you  know: — 'Listen 
to  me ;  you  are  a  cruel  and  unscrupulous  woman — ' ' ' 

"Oh,  well,  but,"  Tom  interrupted,  "she  doesn't 
mean  to  be  cruel.  I  think  she — " 

"Listen,  sir!  you  can  do  as  you  choose;  but  I 
tell  you  this  is  the  only  way  I  see  out  of  your 
difficulty.  'You  are  a  cruel  and  unscrupulous 
and  selfish  woman'  (you'll  say).  'You  have 
chosen  to  believe  that  I  amount  to  something. 
You  have  made  up  your  mind  that  I  am  a  fine 
fellow.  Now  listen  to  me — Pm  not.  I'm  a  shal 
low,  untruthful,  cowardly  man,  and  I  won't  have 
you  pushing  me  up  on  a  pedestal  where  I  don't  be 
long.'  Hastings,  if  you  can  say  that  to  her," 
(Tom  sat  looking  at  him,  open-mouthed) — "if  you 
can  tell  her  that  never  for  a  moment  since  she 
married  you  has  she  let  you  be  yourself — if  you 
can  tell  her  that  she  is  a  thief,  that  she  has  stolen 
your  littleness,  and  your  meanness,  your  badness, 

320 


THE   THIEF 

for  that  matter;  and  left  you  a  poor,  miserable, 
cowardly  sneak,  walking  about  in  her  petticoats, 
speaking  her  thoughts,  and  living  her  goodness, 
(for  Annie  is  a  good  child) ; — if  you  can  make  her 
see  this,  why,  bless  my  heart,  man,  you'll  save 
both  of  you !  The  fault  in  this  matter  is  not  yours, 
it's  hers." 

Tom  Hastings  rose,  white  and  speechless.  Dr. 
Lavendar  came  and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
his  keen  old  eyes  kind  and  anxious. 

"Hastings,  my  dear  fellow,  look  here;  can't  you 
be  yourself?  Annie  will  love  you  better;  she'll 
love  you,  not  herself,  which  is  what  she  loves  now. 
And  we'll  all  be  fond  of  you.  And — it  will  be  a 
relief  to  you.  You  know  it  will.  Man  to  man, 
tell  me,  now,  aren't  you  tired  of  it  sometimes — 
this  business  of  being  on  a  pedestal?" 

"Damn  it!"  the  other  said,  choking,  "I — I  am!" 

Dr.  Lavendar  took  Tom's  big,  meaningless  hand 
in  his  kind  grip. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy!  Go  now,  and  be  as 
bad  as  you  want  to  be.  It  will  save  you  both — 
I  believe  it  will  save  you  both!" 

Tom  went.  Dr.  Lavendar  watched  him  hurry 
ing  off  through  the  dusk,  and  shook  his  white  head 
sadly. 

Did  Mr.  Hastings  take  Dr.  Lavendar's  advice? 
If  he  did,  he  never  came  back  and  told  the  old 
man.  And  he  certainly  did  not  blossom  out  into 
crime.  But  there  must  have  been  some  kind  of 

321 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

reconciliation  patched  up.  Annie  must  have  ar 
ranged  that  lie  somehow.  Just  how  she  did  it  is 
not  important,  I  suppose.  How  do  we, all  fit 
facts  to  our  ideals?  We  keep  our  respect  for  our 
tippling  husbands  by  saying  that  the  fault  is  only 
the  virtue  of  good-fellowship  gone  to  seed.  We 
occasionally  (more  rarely)  continue  fond  of  our 
whining,  fussing  wives  by  assuring  ourselves  that 
the  nagging  and  worrying  spring  from  deep  devo 
tion  to  ourselves.  Well!  So  it  goes.  Annie 
must  have  reconciled  her  heart  and  head  in  some 
sort  of  way.  Perhaps  she  called  the  lie  a  fib? 
Perhaps  she  blamed  herself  for  not  having  given 
Tom  the  opportunity  to  explain?  Perhaps  she 
even  exalted  him  into  a  martyr,  by  saying  to  her 
self  that  he  had  borne  this  accident  of  deceit  on 
his  most  sensitive  conscience  so  as  to  spare  her 
the  mortification  of  realizing  her  mistake.  Love 
is  capable  of  looking  at  facts  in  this  cross-eyed 
way! 

But  some  adjustment  must  have  been  made; 
for  when  the  Hastings  gave  up  their  house  and 
went  away  to  Mercer  to  live,  Annie  told  Gertrude 
Mack  that  she  was  heavenly  happy — she  didn't 
believe  any  woman  had  ever  been  so  happy! 
("One  would  have  thought,  to  hear  her,"  Ger 
trude  told  Helen  Smith,  "that  Annie  had  dis 
covered  matrimony!")  And  then  she  said  that 
on  the  whole  she  believed  the  new  people  were 
right,  and  Dr.  Lavendar  was  too  old  to  preach 
any  longer. 

322 


THE    THIEF 

''Besides,"  she  said,  "he  is  dreadfully  narrow, 
and  perfectly  incapable  of  understanding  a  sensi 
tive  and  imaginative  nature.  And  you  know  that 
sort  of  man  can  do  infinite  harm!" 

A  remark  which  might  cause  a  thoughtful  per 
son  to  wonder  what  account  Tom  had  given  her 
of  his  interview  with  the  old  minister. 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 


MISS  CLARA'S  PERSEUS 


ONCE  in  a  while  a  human  creature  is  born  a 
Friend,  just  as  every  dog  is  born  a  friend,  or 
as  ordinary  people  are  born  butchers,  or  house 
keepers,  or  artists.  For  one  born  friend  (who  is 
not  a  dog)  there  are,  of  course,  hundreds  of  the 
rest  of  us  who  are  born — just  anything.  Con 
sidering,  then,  the  rareness  of  the  species,  it  is  a 
little  remarkable  that  Old  Chester  should  have 
had  one  of  these  beings  within  its  borders.  There 
were  many  friendly  folk  in  Old  Chester;  there 
were  many  friends,  even;  but  there  was  only  one 
Clara  Hale! 

Miss  Ellen  Bailey's  school-girls  were  brought 
up  on  the  ideal  of  friendship  as  exemplified  by 
Miss  Clara.  But  it  was  during  our  last  year — 
the  year  before  Miss  Ellen  got  married  and  the 
school  closed — that  that  which  had  been  a  tra 
dition  of  the  past  suddenly  became  a  feature  of 
the  present;  the  old  and  wonderful  friendship, 
supposed  to  be  dead,  came  to  life!  It  took  shape 
before  our  very  eyes,  and  all  Miss  Ellen's  girls 

327 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

gaped  with  sympathetic  sentimentality.  That 
Miss  Clara  Hale  had  been  a  good  daughter  for 
many  sad  years  was  as  nothing  to  us,  in  compari 
son  with  the  fact  that  she  had  been  a  good  friend 
"ever  since  she  was  born"! 

For  she  and  Fanny  Morrison  began  to  be 
friends  in  their  cradles,  so  their  mothers  said. 
When  they  got  into  short  clothes  they  learned 
their  letters  first  with  one  mother  and  then  with 
the  other;  and  by  and  by  they  progressed,  still 
side  by  side  at  one  or  the  other  maternal  knee, 
to  Reading  Without  Tears,  and,  like  the  two  gilt 
cherubs  on  the  brown  cover,  they  read  out  of  the 
same  book,  in  big  black  type  (which  it  makes  my 
head  ache  now  to  think  of),  "o-x,  ox;  a-x,  ax." 
When  they  began  to  go  to  school  (this  was  be 
fore  Miss  Ellen's  day,  of  course)  they  came  to 
gether,  and  sat  together,  and  went  home  with 
their  arms  about  each  other's  waists.  Their  hair- 
ribbons  were  just  alike,  they  both  had  Campbell- 
plaid  best  dresses,  and  each  possessed  a  "treas 
ure-trunk" — a  doll's  trunk  in  which  they  kept 
precious  keepsakes  of  each  other.  It  was  said 
they  had  never  squabbled.  We,  observing  Miss 
Clara  now,  thirty  years  later,  quite  understood 
this;  how  could  anybody  quarrel  with  this  silent 
angel  with  the  vaguely  lovely  face?  We  always 
thought  of  Miss  Clara  when  people  talked  about 
angels.  Certainly  Fanny  Morrison  would  have 
been  simply  a  fiend  if  she  had  squabbled  with 
Miss  Clara! 

328 


MISS   CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

"She  never  said  a  cross  word  to  any  one," 
Mary  Dilworth  said  once,  looking  significantly 
at  her  bosom  friend;  "much  less  to  Fanny." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't,  either,  if  you  were  an  angel 
like  her,"  the  bosom  friend  retorted. 

"I  wish  she  had  got  married,  though,"  some 
one  sighed;  "she'd  have  made  such  a  beautiful 
bride." 

Here  was  another  wonderful  thing  about  Miss 
Clara:  she  could  have  got  married,  and  she 
didn't!  "He,"  as  Miss  Ellen's  girls  called  him, 
had  been  as  devoted  to  her  as  she  was  to  her 
Friend.  But  to  think  that  a  young  lady  could 
have  had  a  veil,  and  white  slippers,  and  the  third 
finger  of  her  left  glove  ripped,  so  that  the  ring 
could  be  put  on,  and,  oh,  everything! — and 
wouldn't!  It  was  unbelievable.  But  we  knew  it 
was  true,  because  here  was  Mr.  Oliver  Ormsby 
still  hanging  around  like  a  faithful  dog  (of  course 
"faithful  dog"  is  tautology,  but  we  didn't  know 
that);  in  fact,  Miss  Clara  could  be  married  even 
now,  old  as  she  was — and  she  still  "wouldn't." 

"Not  that  I  blame  her,"  Mary  Dilworth  has 
tened  to  add;  "just  look  at  him!" 

We  liked  Mr.  Ormsby;  he  always  had  "kisses" 
in  his  pocket  which  he  shared  with  any  young 
person  he  might  meet;  but  he  was  not  beauti 
ful  to  look  at, — poor  Mr.  Oliver!  He  was  roly- 
poly,  and  bald,  and  had  red  side  whiskers;  and 
he  wasn't  as  tall  as  Miss  Clara.  Imagine  walking 
up  the  aisle,  and  looking  down  at  a  bald  head! 

329 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

Oh  no;  she  couldn't  have  married  him  when  she 
was  young,  and  certainly  not  now  when  she  was 
old.  "My  mother  says  she's  forty-four,"  Mary 
announced.  We  knew  exactly  how  old  the  angel 
was,  but  we  always  gasped  when  her  age  was 
mentioned. 

"Forty-four!  Oh,  do  you  think  she  will  die 
soon?"  some  one  asked,  apprehensively, — which 
moved  at  least  one  girl  to  tears. 

According  to  tradition,  this  wonderful  friend 
ship,  unbroken  by  a  squabble,  went  on  until  a 
most  dreadful  thing  happened — the  Morrisons 
went  out  West  to  live.  Probably  the  older  people 
would  have  called  the  reason  of  that  removal  to 
the  West  dreadful,  but  it  was  the  moving  itself 
which  was  so  appalling  to  Old  Chester  youth — 
for  it  separated  the  Friends!  As  for  the  reason, 
the  eldest  Morrison  boy  got  sick,  and  his  father 
and  mother  took  it  into  their  heads  that  they 
ought  to  live  in  California;  so  they  packed  up 
and  left  Old  Chester  at  a  month's  notice.  They 
never  thought  of  Fanny's  feelings  at  being  torn 
from  Miss  Clara!  Fathers  and  mothers  are  very 
cruel  about  such  things.  The  two  girls  were 
about  fourteen  when  this  happened.  During 
those  weeks  before  the  crash  of  departure,  the  im 
petuous  Fanny  cried  and  raged,  and  Clara's 
smooth  forehead,  so  full  and  pure  and  girlish, 
gathered  lines  that  never  left  it.  She  used  to 
come  over  to  Fanny's  house,  and  creep  up  to  her 
room  to  sit  beside  her  in  absolute  silence.  Some- 

330 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

times  she  held  Fanny's  hand,  sometimes  kissed 
it,  sometimes  quickly  and  furtively  touched  her 
lips  to  the  older  girl's  shoulder,  or  even  to  her 
skirt.  Fanny  talked  vehemently  all  the  time, 
not  pausing  even  while  she  straightened  Clara's 
hair-ribbon  or  fastened  a  hook  and  eye  on  her 
waist.  "Of  course  I'm  sorry  Freddy  is  sick;  but 
I  don't  see  the  slightest  use  of  going  away.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you  are  a  dear  untidy  thing,  Clara!  ...  I 
guess  Pennsylvania  'air'  is  as  good  as  any  in 
California!  .  .  .  I'll  just  simply  die  without  you, 
Clara!  Here — let  me  pin  your  collar.  Simply 
die!"  This  last,  over  and  over. 

In  answer,  Clara,  very  pale,  would  press  Fanny's 
dimpled  hand  against  her  young  bosom,  then 
kiss  each  individual  finger.  She  rarely  said  more 
than,  "Oh,  Fanny." 

But  Fanny  did  not  need  any  response;  in  fact, 
she  would  not  have  heard  it  in  the  torrent  of  her 
own  words:  "I'll  miss  you  every  minute.  I'll 
think  of  you  every  minute.  We'll  write  to  each 
other  every  day!" 

"Every  day." 

"And  I'll  tell  you  every  single  thought  I  have, 
and  every  single  thing  I  do.  Oh,  Clara,  how  cruel 
they  are  to  drag  me  out  there,  away  from  you! 
I  don't  see  why  they  couldn't  take  poor  Freddy 
and  leave  me  here!" 

As  the  day  of  separation  came  nearer  Fanny 
suggested  that  they  should  run  away  together; 
and,  while  Clara  looked  on,  haggard  and  speech 
es  331 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

less,  she  broke  open  her  savings-bank  to  see  if 
she  could  finance  the  scheme. 

However,  the  three  dollars  and  sixty-two  cents 
on  deposit  put  an  end  to  this  project.    Instead  of 
running  away  they  vowed  and  vowed  and  vowed 
again  eternal,  unchangeable  friendship,  and  let 
ters  every  day.     The  night  before  the  Morrisons 
left  Old  Chester  was  one  of  real  agony  to  the  two 
little  creatures.    They  were  so  miserable  that  the 
poor  Morrison  father  and  mother  actually  had 
a  glimmer  of  amusement  in  the  midst  of  their 
melancholy    preoccupation    of    anxiety.      Fanny 
went  around  with  a  parboiled  face  of  tears  and 
snuffles.    She  was  a  perfect  nuisance — when  every 
body  was  so  engrossed  in  packing  up,  and  try 
ing  to  remember  this  and  settle  that,  and  say 
good-by  to  all  Old  Chester!     It  was  a  relief,  Mrs. 
Morrison  said,  to  get  the  poor  child,  with  her  sobs 
and  sulks,  out  of  the  way  for  a  while;   so  no  one 
called  her  back  when,  in  the  May  dusk,  Fanny 
slipped  down  to  the  gate  to  meet  Clara.     There, 
under  the  shadows  of  a  great  hedge  of  blossoming 
laburnum,  they  took  their  last  farewells.    Fanny, 
freckled,  voluble,  her  honest,  good-humored  face 
streaming  with  tears;    Clara,  white,   silent,  and 
entirely  dry-eyed.     They  flew  into  each  other's 
arms,  and  Fanny  sobbed  loudly. 

"I  shall  never  get  married, "  she  said;  "I  de 
cided  that  this  afternoon.  I  told  mother  to-day. 
I  said,  'Mother,  I  shall  never,  never,  never  get 
married!'  And  what  do  you  suppose  mother  said? 

332 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

She  said,  'Perhaps  no  one  will  ask  you.'  I  said, 
'I  should  consider  it  unfaithful  to  Clara  even  to 
be  asked !'  And  I  would.  No,  I  shall  never  marry. 
As  soon  as  I  am  allowed  to  do  what  I  please  I 
shall  come  back  to  you.  I  told  mother  so.  I 
said,  'Mother,  as  soon  as  I  can  do  what  I  please 
I  shall  go  back  to  Clara.'  You  won't  get  married, 
either,  will  you,  Clara?" 

"No." 

They  sat  down  in  the  grass,  Clara  holding  one 
of  Fanny's  curls  against  her  lips,  listening  for  the 
thousandth  time  to  vows  of  enduring  love.  Sud 
denly  Fanny  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence : 

"I  will  nev —  Clara!  Let's  sign  it  in  our 
blood!" 

"Sign— what?" 

"That  we  will  always,  always  love  each  other! 
I  tolcl  mother  at  dinner  that  I  would  always  love 
you,  and  she  said,  'Always  is  a  long  word.'  I  said, 
'Well,  mother,  I've  vowed.'  She  just  laughed. 
Oh,  aren't  they  cruel?  Grown-up  people  don't 
understand  love;  at  any  rate,  mothers  don't. 
Let's  vow,  and  sign  it — 

Clara  broke  in,  in  a  passionate  whisper,  "Yes." 

Fanny  jumped  to  her  feet.  "I'll  tear  back  to 
the  house  and  get  paper  and  a  pencil;  if  they 
haven't  gone  and  packed  every  single  blessed 
th — "  Her  voice  was  lost  in  the  sound  of  her  flying 
steps. 

Alone  in  the  shadow  of  the  laburnums,  in  the 
333 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

fragrant  twilight,  Clara  put  her  face  down  in  the 
grass  and  moaned:  "  She's  going  away.  She's 
going  away.  She's  going  away."  She  was  still 
lying  there  when  Fanny  came  running  down  the 
path. 

"It  was  hard  work  to  get  the  things!  Just  as 
I  said!  They'd  gone  and  packed  up  everything! 
I  told  mother  at  supper,—  I  said,  'Why  pack  ev—  ' 
But  I  tore  two  pages  out  of  the  back  of  my 
speller,  one  for  you  and  one  for  me.  And"—  her 
breathless  voice  fell  and  thrilled—  "here  is  a  pin" 

||  A  pin?"  Clara  said,  bewildered. 

"To  prick  our  fingers.  But  we  must  write  out 
the  vow  first"—  she  had  brought  a  pen  for  the 
signatures,  but  a  pencil  for  the  oath—  "  because," 
she  explained,  practically,  "all  those  words  would 
take  too  much  blood." 

The  vow  was  quickly  decided  upon  and  writ 
ten  in  lead-pencil  in  a  round,  pot-hook  hand  on 
each  of  the  blank  pages  rifled  from  the  spelling- 
book: 


/  promise  to  love  j  ^^  \  all  my  life 


"We'll  sign  right  under  it,"  Fanny  commanded. 
Her  face  was  alert  with  interest,  and  her  poor 
little  swollen  nose  was  distinctly  less  red.  "Give 
me  the  pin!"  she  said,  solemnly;  then  squealed, 
dropped  the  pin,  and  put  her  finger  in  her  mouth. 
"We'd  better  get  red  ink,"  she  mumbled.  "Isn't 
there  some  red  ink  at  your  house?" 

334 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

Clara,  on  her  knees  in  the  grass,  feeling  for  the 
pin,  broke  in:  "No.  It  must  be  in  our  blood. 
Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  got  on  her  feet,  holding 
the  pin  in  a  steady  hand.  Then  her  breath 
caught,  and  a  red  drop  welled  up  on  the  tip  of  her 
left  forefinger;  but  she  did  not  utter  a  sound. 
She  took  the  pen  hurriedly  so  as  not  to  lose  the 
living  ink,  and  holding  the  page  of  the  spelling- 
book  against  the  gate-post,  and  straining  her  eyes 
in  the  gathering  darkness,  she  traced  her  name 
below  the  impassioned  words. 

"Don't  let's  sign  our  last  names;  mine  is  so 
long,"  said  Fanny. 

But  Clara's  scarlet  "Hale"  was  already  written. 

"It's  stopped  bleeding,"  said  Fanny,  ruefully, 
looking  at  her  finger. 

"Mine  hasn't,"  Clara  said;  "take  my  blood." 

Fanny,  who  had  a  real  sense  of  fitness,  hesi 
tated,  sighed,  and  squeezed  her  finger.  "I  can't 
make  it  bleed  any  more,"  she  said;  "well — '  She 
dipped  the  pen  into  the  rapidly  drying  drop  on 
Clara's  finger  and  scrawled  a  faint  "Fanny 
Morr — "  There  was  no  more  ink!  "Well,  never 
mind,"  she  said;  "that's  enough.  Now  you  give 
me  your  vow  and  I'll  give  you  mine." 

The  exchange  was  made,  but  Clara  kissed  her 
scrap  of  paper  before  she  handed  it  over  to  Fanny. 

"You  put  my  vow  in  your  treasure-trunk,  and 
I'll  put  yours  in  mine,"  Fanny  said. 

Clara  nodded.     She  was  beyond  words. 

The  story  of  the  final  rending  apart  was  almost 
335 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

more  than  Miss  Ellen's  girls  could  bear,  although 
the  grown  people  used  to  laugh,  all  these  years 
afterwards,  when  they  talked  about  it!  Miss 
Ellen's  girls  never  laughed.  Each  of  us  wished 
we  knew  a  girl  worthy  to  be  a  Fanny  to  our  Clara, 
for  no  girl  doubted  that  she  could  be  a  Clara — 
jabbing  that  pin  right  down  into  her  ringer  and, 
"with  the  blood  streaming  all  over  the  grass," 
write  the  full  name,  even  if  it  did  have  nine  let 
ters  in  it! 

Well,  then,  at  last  the  Morrison  family  were 
gone.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Hale  said  she  was  glad  to  get  the 
thing  over;  now,  perhaps,  Clara  would  eat  her 
meals  like  a  sensible  child. 

"Wasn't  it  just  like  a  girl's  mother,  to  say  a 
thing  like  that?"  Miss  Ellen's  pupils  said;  "and 
of  course  she  didn't  eat;  look  how  thin  she  is!" 

As  for  what  happened  after  the  actual  tragedy 
of  parting,  that  wasn't  so  interesting.  It  leaked 
out,  somehow  (until  poor  Mrs.  Hale  was  stricken 
with  paralysis,  Old  Chester  never  lacked  for  in 
formation),  it  leaked  out  that  on  Fanny's  side 
the  correspondence  soon  flagged.  Her  letters, 
like  those  of  most  talkative  persons,  were  infre 
quent  and  laconic;  in  a  month  the  "daily"  letter 
became  a  weekly  one;  in  half  a  year  it  arrived 
once  in  eight  or  ten  weeks.  But  Clara  kept  up 
her  end  of  the  correspondence  with  disconcerting 
punctuality.  She  used  to  reply  to  Fanny's  brief 
missives  almost  in  the  same  hour  in  which  they 
were  received,  and  at  great  length — inarticulate 

336 


MISS   CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

people  often  have  voluble  pens;  then  a  week 
later  she  would  write  again,  and  perhaps  yet 
again,  before  a  response  came.  The  epistolary 
flame  flared  up  once,  when  the  girls  were  about 
twenty,  because  Fanny  had  a  lover.  For  some 
months  before  her  marriage  she  shared  with 
Clara  her  ecstasies  about  her  Mr.  Herbert.  In 
the  reflected  glow  of  young  love,  Clara  expanded 
like  a  slowly  opening  white  lily.  She  began 
about  this  time  to  have  a  lover  herself — fat, 
good,  sandy-haired  young  Oliver  Ormsby,  who 
played  on  the  flute,  sucked  " kisses,"  and  read 
every  novel  he  could  lay  his  hands  on.  But  Miss 
Clara  was  unresponsive  to  her  own  romance. 
When  she  looked  at  Oliver  her  soft  eye  was  as 
cool  as  a  mountain  spring;  all  the  passion  she 
possessed  was  given  to  Fanny's  passion.  When 
Fanny's  baby  boy  was  born — and  named  Hale, 
after  Clara— Clara  brooded  over  the  news  as  a 
bird  might  brood  over  its  own  empty  nest,  and 
again  the  old  correspondence  revived.  But  it  was 
one-sided,  for  Fanny  was  too  busy  to  answer  more 
than  one  letter  in  five.  By  the  time  the  friends 
were  twenty-six  or  seven  the  letters  were  only 
rather  long  Christmas  and  birthday  notes  from 
Clara,  with  an  occasional  acknowledgment  from 
Fanny. 

Then  all  communication  ceased.  This  was  the 
year  that  Mrs.  Hale  was  taken  ill.  After  that, 
with  the  most  faithful  intentions  in  the  world, 
Clara  had  no  time  even  for  birthday  notes.  She 

337 


AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

was  not  a  very  capable  person,  and  the  nursing 
of  her  mother  left  her  time  only  for  her  birdlike 
meals  and  an  occasional  Sunday-morning  service. 
Once  a  rumor  reached  Old  Chester  that  Fanny's 
husband  was  dead,   and  then   Clara  did  write; 
but  her  words  of  sympathy  came  back  to  her 
through  the  dead-letter  office.    That  was  the  end. 
She  did  not  write  again.     Probably  Fanny  Mor 
rison — Herbert,   rather — hardly  noticed  the  ces 
sation  of  the  letters.     It  was  all  she  could  do- 
poor,   good-natured,   impulsive,   sensible  woman! 
—to  fight  the  realities  of  breavement  and  poverty. 
To  Clara,  in  the  back-water  of  a  sick-room,  the 
gradual  ending  of  the  friendship  was  not,  perhaps, 
an   acute   unhappiness;    it    was   rather   a   dully 
aching  regret.     Although  she  did  not  know  it, 
part  of  the  regret  was  for  the  loss  of  an  interest 
— the  only  interest  in  her  life,  except  her  mother. 
Mrs.  Hale  was  her  tender  but  pathetically  mo 
notonous  occupation.     In  those  years  of  slowly 
increasing  helplessness,  Clara,  with  the  aid  of  her 
deaf  old  Maggie,  took  entire  care  of  the  invalid. 
It  was  a  patiently  sad  task,  devoid  of  interest  be 
cause  devoid  of  hope,  and,  to  any  extent,  of  dis 
tress,  for  Mrs.  Hale  did  not  suffer.     Clara  and 
Maggie  did  what  they  could  for  her  body;    and 
for  her  mind,  her  daughter  read  aloud  to  her  for 
hours  every  day.    She  did  this  even  when  the  time 
came  that  she  could  not  tell  whether  or  not  her 
mother  heard  her.    What  this  meant  of  persistency 
of  purpose  during  the  last  year  or  two  of  dumb, 

338 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

blind,  apparently  deaf  helplessness,  can  be  im 
agined.  Not  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid  or  the  pres 
sure  of  a  finger  showed  whether  Mrs.  Hale  could 
understand,  or  even  hear,  the  newspaper  or  Bible 
or  novel,  which,  with  slow,  painfully  distinct 
enunciation,  week  after  week,  month  after  month, 
Clara  read  to  her.  It  was  so  mechanical  that 
often  this  faithful  daughter  did  not  know  what 
she  read;  her  mind  drowsed  in  the  gently  dulling 
flow  of  her  own  voice.  Her  dutifulness  (faith 
fully  reported  by  Oliver)  was  the  wonder  and 
admiration  of  Old  Chester;  but  no  one  realized 
how,  little  by  little,  in  the  silent  house,  with 
the  silent  woman  on  the  bed,  and  the  almost 
equally  silent  old  servant  down-stairs,  Clara- 
traveling  this  narrow  path  of  duty  where  no  temp 
tation  held  out  a  warm,  alluring  hand,  and  where 
the  hedge  of  habit  hid  the  wider  fields  of  other 
people's  hopes  and  joys  and  sorrows — grew  nar 
row,  too,  and  emotionally  sterile.  Her  serenity 
seemed  to  those  who  looked  on,  and  thought  of 
the  burden  she  bore,  a  sign  of  saintliness — "or 
stupidity,"  Oliver  Ormsby's  mother  said,  "which 
is  the  same  thing." 

"What!    What!"  said  Old  Chester,  horrified. 

"Saints  are  drefful  narrow-minded,"  Mrs.  Orms- 
by  explained;  "and  narrow  people  are  stupid, 
and  stupid  people  make  me  cross!" 

Martha  King  took  pains  to  repeat  to  the  old 
lady  Dr.  Lavendar's  comment  on  this  remark. 
"Because,"  said  Mrs.  King,  "that's  one  thing 

339 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

about  me;  I  may  not  be  perfect,  but  I  am  frank. 
.  .  .  Dr.  Lavendar  said  no  one  could  call  you 
saintly,"  Martha  said,  gravely. 

Old  Mrs.  Ormsby  made  a  fine  courtesy.  "He 
compliments  me!"  she  said. 

As  for  that  reading  aloud,  when  asked  about 
it,  Clara  said,  briefly,  "Yes,  I  read." 

"Does  she  understand?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"But  why—" 

"Oh,"  Clara  said,  "if  there  is  even  a  chance 
that  she  understands — " 

"Clara,  you  are  an  angel!"  Oliver  Ormsby 
would  say.  "I  wish  you  would  let  me  help  you; 
I  could  read  to  her  sometimes." 

"You  do  help  me;    you  bring  me  books." 

"I  could  do  more  than  that  if  you  would  only 
marry  me,"  he  pleaded. 

Clara,  growing  pale  and  then  red,  said,  faintly, 
"Oh,  now,  Oliver,  please!" 

Oliver  was  silent.  After  years  of  semiannual 
offers  of  marriage  he  did  not  press  his  proposals; 
in  fact,  they  were  a  little  casual:  "Don't  you 
think  you  care  enough  for  me,  now,  Clara,  to 
marry  me?"  or,  "I  wish  you  felt  like  marrying 
me,  dear!"  or,  "That  chimney  of  yours  is  smoking 
pretty  badly;  if  we  were  only  married  I  could 
look  after  the  house  better  than  I  do." 

"It's  queer  she  doesn't  take  him,"  Old  Chester 
said,  observing  his  faithfulness. 

"She  has  no  idea  of  taking  him!"  Mrs.  Ormsby 
340 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

said,  resentfully;   ''she  just  keeps  him  hanging 


on." 


He  had  hung  on  for  twenty  years.  In  the  days 
when  Miss  Ellen's  girls  paid  him  the  tautological 
compliment,  what  there  was  left  of  his  sandy  hair 
was  getting  gray  around  the  temples.  He  had 
a  quiet  humor  of  his  own  that  kept  him  from  being 
embittered  by  what  his  mother,  in  moments  of 
displeased  confidence  to  Old  Chester,  called  Clara 
Hale's  "selfishness";  and  with  his  humor  was  a 
fine  sort  of  courage  that  made  him  willing  to  be 
ridiculous.  It  takes  more  courage  to  be  deliber 
ately  ridiculous  than  to  be  either  good  or  bad, 
and  a  man  is  a  little  ridiculous  who,  as  Mr.  Mack 
said,  "runs  after  one  petticoat  for  twenty  years." 
Oliver,  on  a  stool  in  Mack  &  Company's  counting- 
room  in  Upper  Chester,  bending  his  bald  head 
over  his  ledgers,  used  to  watch  his  employer  out 
of  the  corner  of  an  amused  eye.  When  somebody 
repeated  the  remark  about  the  single  petticoat 
he  moved  a  lump  of  candy  from  his  left  cheek  to 
his  right,  and  looked  thoughtful. 

"Old  Mack  is  qualified  to  express  an  opinion," 
he  admitted;  "but  until  he  raises  my  pay  I  can't 
afford  new  boots.  So  I  can't  follow  his  example 
and  run  after  twenty  petticoats  in  one  year." 
Instead,  he  continued  the  pursuit  of  the  one  and 
only  petticoat  which,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
Old  Chester  had  ever  possessed.  He  called  on 
Miss  Clara  twice  a  week.  On  Wednesday  evenings 
he  brought  his  flute,  and,  just  before  he  said  good 

34i 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

night,  went  out  into  the  hall  and,  sitting  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  stairs,  played  a  little  tune. 
"I've  left  her  door  open;  perhaps  she  hears,"  Clara 
always  said.  On  Sunday  afternoons,  if  the  weather 
was  fine,  he  and  Clara  went  to  walk;  if  it  stormed, 
they  sat  in  the  parlor,  and  Oliver  told  her  about 
the  last  novel  he  had  read.  Sometimes  a  tired 
look  would  come  into  her  soft  eyes,  and  when  he 
saw  it  he  would  pop  a  "kiss"  into  his  mouth  as  if 
it  were  a  cork. 

"I  know  I  tire  you  by  talking,  Clara,"  he  would 
mumble. 

"A  little,"  she  would  admit,  gently. 

Oliver  Ormsby  was  rather  a  talkative  person, 
and  yet,  curiously  enough,  Clara's  silences  charmed 
him. 

"Love  is  the  most  incomprehensible  thing!" 
Mrs.  Ormsby  used  to  say,  despairingly.  "I  don't 
see  how  you  stand  her  dumbness." 

"I  like  it,"  Oliver  declared. 

"I  want  you  to  be  married,"  his  mother  said; 
"I'm  not  going  to  live  for  ever,  and  you  ought 
to  have  a  wife  to  take  care  of  you.  You  never 
know  when  to  put  on  your  winter  flannels.  Clara 
ought  to  take  you  or  leave  you.  But  she's  just 
a  dog  in  the  manger!" 

'Td  rather  have  Clara's  affection,  such  as  it  is, 
than  the  gush  of  six  blatherskite  girls,"  he  said, 
mildly.  "Clara  is  an  angel!  Look  how  she  takes 
care  of  her  mother." 

"Teh!"  said  Mrs.  Ormsby. 
342 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

But  when  he  started  off  to  make  his  Sunday- 
afternoon  call  she  winked  and  blew  her  nose. 
"I  don't  care  if  she  is  an  angel,"  she  said,  "she  is 
no  housekeeper!  And  he  is  the  best  friend  any 
woman  ever  had." 

On  that  particular  October  Sunday  afternoon, 
Oliver,  when  he  presented  himself  at  Clara's 
door,  found  her  with  a  faintly  eager  look  in  her 
face. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you!"  she  said,  a 
thrill  of  excitement  in  her  voice. 

"Let's  take  a  walk,"  Oliver  suggested,  "and 
you  can  tell  me  then." 

She  agreed,  and  went  up  to  her  room  to  smooth 
her  hair  down  over  her  ears  and  put  on  a  little 
scoop  bonnet  which  had  a  wreath  of  pansies  in 
side  the  brim.  When  she  tied  the  lilac  ribbons 
under  her  chin  her  eyes  were  so  vague  with  hap 
piness  that  the  bow  was  even  more  careless  than 
usual.  Then  she  went  into  her  mother's  room; 
Maggie  sat  by  a  window,  rocking  drowsily,  and 
on  the  bed  was  the  loglike  figure,  blind,  dumb 
— deaf,  as  far  as  any  one  knew.  But  Clara  bent 
over,  and  whispered  in  the  livid  ear:  "Good-by, 
dear  mother.  I  am  going  out  to  walk.  With 
Oliver.  I'll  tell  him  the  news."  She  kissed  the 
cheek  that  seemed  dead  to  the  soft  pressure  of 
her  lips,  and  sighed.  "You'll  speak  to  her  some 
times,  Maggie,  to  let  her  know  you  are  here?" 

"Yes,  me  dear,"  Maggie  promised,  sleepily. 

Oliver,  waiting  in  the  parlor,  took  the  wrapper 
343 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

off  a  "kiss,"  read  the  line  of  verse  printed  in 
blunt,  gray  type  on  the  strip  of  paper  that  was 
folded  about  it,  and  popped  the  candy  into  his 
left  cheek;  then  he  opened  the  Poetesses  of  Amer 
ica  which  lay  in  the  glory  of  its  gilt  binding  on 
the  marble-topped  center-table,  and  read  until 
he  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs.  He  turned  as  she 
entered,  and  looked  at  the  girl  he  had  loved  so 
long — she  was  still  a  girl  to  Oliver;  he  saw  the 
sweet  face,  the  pansy-trimmed  bonnet,  the  black 
mantilla  over  a  shimmering  lavender  silk  dress; 
he  saw  the  faint  excitement  in  the  myrtle-blue 
eyes;  he  never  saw  the  little  wrinkles  or  the  gray 
hairs;  still  less  did  he  see  the  dog  in  the  manger. 
He  opened  her  parasol  for  her  as  they  stepped  out 
into  the  October  sunshine,  and  then  he  said,  gaily : 

"Well,  what's  the  wonderful  news?" 

"Oh,  Oliver!"  she  said.  "Think!  I've  heard 
from  Fanny!" 

"Fanny  who?"  he  asked  (which  showed  that 
he  was  not  one  of  Miss  Ellen's  girls!  The  idea 
of  saying,  'Fanny  who?') 

She  told  him  'who,'  briefly. 

"Oh  yes;    I  remember  her.     Fat  girl." 

"She  and  I  are  friends,  Oliver,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"Yes;  I  know  you  are;  at  least  I  know  you 
are.  As  for  her,  seems  to  me  a  friend  wouldn't 
let  it  be  so  long  between  drinks." 

"Oliver!" 

"Between  letters.  Have  a  'kiss  '  Clara?  Why 
does  she  write  now?" 

344 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

The  emphasis  on  "now"  was  delicate,  but  it 
brought  the  color  into  Clara's  face.  She  waved 
the  "kiss"  aside. 

"She  knows  that  I  want  to  hear  from  her,  now." 
"I  mean,  why  hasn't  she  been  writing?" 
Fanny's  friend  was  silent.  Her  silence  was 
always  like  a  soft  finger  laid  against  Oliver's  lips; 
he  swallowed  what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  for 
some  time  the  only  sound  was  the  brush  of  their 
steps  through  the  fallen  leaves.  Under  the  bare 
branches  of  the  maples  the  October  sunshine  fell 
warm  on  dells  of  frosted  brakes  and  patches  of 
vividly  green  moss;  the  trunks  of  the  little  white 
birches,  bending,  some  of  them,  sidewise,  from 
forgotten  ice-storms,  were  gilded  with  sunshine. 
Clara,  Oliver  thought,  was  like  one  of  these  vir 
ginal  trees.  The  people  who  wrapped  the  poetry 
around  the  "kisses"  might  print  something  about 
birch-trees  instead  of  the  everlasting 

.  .  .  rose  is  red,  the  violet  blue, 
Sugar  is  sweet,  and  so  are  you. 

"Why,"  he  reflected,  "don't  they  say  some 
thing  like:  Sidewise  they  lean,  the  little  lady  trees, 
as  if  they  mourned  their  softly  falling  leaves.  .  .  . 
No ;  leaves  don't  rhyme.  .  .  .  As  if  they  feared  the 
— the — the  roving  robber  breeze" 

Then  he  forgot  his  rhymes  with  a  start.  Clara 
was  speaking: 

"Her  son  is  dead.  She  was  too  unhappy  to 
write." 

345 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"Yes?"  Oliver  said. 

The  path  had  brought  them  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and  they  paused  to  look  down  across  mea 
dows  at  the  river  slipping  in  a  silver  gleam  tow 
ards  the  haze  of  darkening  amethyst  in  the  west. 
Clara  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud: 

"She  doesn't  like  her  husband's  relations." 

"Maybe  they  don't  like  her." 

"She  is  my  friend,  Oliver,"  she  reproved  him, 
gently. 

"I  never  could  see  why,  because  a  person  was 
my  friend,  he  was  beyond  criticism.  Clara,  what 
rhymes  with  ' trees'?" 

Clara  shook  her  head.  Oliver  found  a  con 
venient  log,  and,  sitting  down  on  it,  drew  his 
flute  from  his  pocket;  presently  a  little  thread  of 
melody  wandered  through  the  still  air. 

The  sun,  like  a  swimmer  standing  waist-deep 
in  gray  water,  had  sunk  into  a  bank  of  cloud; 
scarcely  half  of  the  great  red  disk  glowed  above 
the  engulfing  purple.  The  gilt  had  faded  from 
the  white  trunks  of  the  birches.  The  faint  tootle 
of  the  flute  went  on: 

Oh,  listen  to  the  mocking-bird — 

Suddenly  Clara  began  to  speak: 

Fanny  was  very  poor.  She  had  no  home.  Her 
husband's  relatives  didn't  ask  her  to  live  with 
them.  Could  Oliver  imagine  anything  so  un 
kind? 

"Well,"  Oliver  said,  wiping  his  flute  with  a. 
346 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

big  white  silk  handkerchief,  "perhaps  they  haven't 
room  for  her." 

'  *  They  should  make  -room !' ' 

Oliver  put  his  flute  in  his  pocket,  opened  a 
"kiss,"  and  read  the  verse  on  the  strip  of  paper. 
"I  could  do  better  than  that,"  he  said,  disgustedly, 
and  popped  the  square  of  candy  into  his  mouth. 
' '  I  wonder  what  put  it  into  her  head  to  write  to 
you?"  he  mumbled. 

Clara  made  no  answer.  Perhaps  she  wondered 
a  little  herself.  She  had  supposed  that  Fanny 
had  entirely  forgotten  her.  To  be  sure,  she  had 
not  forgotten  Fanny;  she  never  could  forget  her. 
Was  not  the  blood  covenant  in  the  little  brass- 
bound  rosewood  desk  which  stood  on  the  table 
in  her  bedroom?  Sometimes,  a  little  sadly,  she 
looked  at  that  page  torn  from  the  old  spelling- 
book  and  read  the  smudged  lead-penciled  words 
above  Fanny's  economical  signature.  But  for 
years  she  had  had  no  more  impulse  to  communi 
cate  with  Fanny  than  with  some  one  who  was 
dead.  For  that  matter,  Clara  never  had  any 
"impulse"  to  do  anything.  That  Fanny  should 
suddenly  write  to  her  was  as  startling  as  if  the 
sober  earth  had  moved  under  her  feet.  She  thrilled, 
as  a  sleeper  stirs  and  smiles  in  some  pleasant  dream. 
She  was  so  absorbed  in  the  interest  of  it  all  that 
she  hardly  heard  Oliver's  comments  on  the  birch- 
trees  as  they  walked  home,  although  she  did 
flush  a  little  when  he  said  they  looked  like  young 
ladies  in  white  stockings — which  showed  Oliver 
23  347 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

that  an  allusion  to  stockings  was  not  quite  deli 
cate. 

"She  is  nothing  but  an  angel,"  he  thought,  dis 
consolately. 

ii 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Herbert  herself  did  not  quite 
understand  why  she  had  written  to  her  old  friend, 
who,  for  all  she  knew,  might  be  dead  and  buried 
as  were  most  of  her  friends  and  relatives — poor 
Fanny!  The  letter  was  just  one  of  her  impulses. 
.  .  .  She  had  met  another  financial  cataclysm;  she 
had  had  so  many  of  them  that  one  might  have 
supposed  she  would  have  got  used  to  them;  but 
this  was  more  complete  than  the  others.  A  board 
ing-house  which  she  had  been  running  with  com 
fortable  efficiency  for  people  who  omitted  to  pay 
their  bills,  had  finally  failed,  and  it  was  when  she 
was  rescuing  a  few  personal  effects  from  the 
auctioneer's  hammer  that,  suddenly  bursting  out 
laughing,  she  bid  in  a  doll's  trunk.  She  had  spent 
the  morning  in  the  great  barnlike  auction-room, 
watching  her  possessions  go  at  prices  which  were 
saved  from  being  heartbreaking  because  they 
were  ridiculous — with  all  her  misfortunes  Fanny 
had  the  luck  of  being  able  to  see  the  ridiculous. 
It  was  when  the  little  trunk  was  put  up  and  was 
"going— going"  for  a  nickel  that  her  sense  of 
humor  got  the  better  of  her. 

"The  Lord  knows  what's  in  it — I  don't!"  she 
giggled  to  a  woman  who  sat  next  to  her;    "but 

348 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

just  for  the  joke  of  it — Ten  cents!"  she  bid,  reck 
lessly;  and  the  little  green  trunk,  with  strips  of 
lacquered  tin  across  the  top  and  two  leather  straps 
crumbling  in  rusty  buckles,  was  handed  down  to 
her. 

That  night,  in  the  hall  bedroom  of  a  boarding- 
house  not  nearly  as  well  run  as  her  own  had  been, 
but  very  successful,  for  all  that,  she  pried  the 
flimsy  hasp  open  with  the  handle  of  her  tooth 
brush,  and  looked  at  the  treasures. 

Some  of  them  were  perfectly  meaningless; 
what  significance  could  there  be  in  a  bent  and 
rusty  nail?  A  pressed  rose  in  a  faded  blue  enve 
lope  roused  no  memories ;  a  '  *  button  string, ' '  which 
broke  as  she  lifted  it  and  let  the  buttons  roll  all 
over  the  floor,  she  did  recall;  she  and  Clara  Hale 
had  each  had  a  ''button  string." 

"Good  gracious!  I  haven't  thought  of  Clara 
for  years  1"  she  said  to  herself.  She  wondered  if 
Clara  were  married — or  dead?  At  the  bottom 
of  the  trunk  was  a  yellowing  sheet  of  paper,  torn, 
apparently,  from  a  book;  she  could  hardly  read 
what  was  scrawled  on  it  in  pencil,  and  the  brown 
signature  was  so  faint  that  she  could  not  have 
deciphered  it  had  not  memory  come  to  her  as 
sistance: 

/  promise  to  love  Fanny  all  my  life. 

CLARA  HALE. 

Fanny  put  the  paper  down  and  laughed  heartily. 
"Well,  well,  well!  Why,  I  remember  that  night, 

349 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

perfectly!"  Suddenly  she  blinked  away  a  tear. 
"My  goodness!  if  Clara  loves  me,  she's  the  only 
person  on  earth  who  does.  I  declare,  I  believe 
I'll  write  to  her!"  She  jumped  to  her  feet  like  a 
girl,  and  dashed  off  that  letter  which  fell  into  her 
old  friend's  quiet  life  as  a  pebble  falls  into  a  smooth 
and  silent  pool.  .  .  . 

It  was  through  Oliver  Ormsby  that  Old  Chester 
heard  that  Fanny  had,  as  he  expressed  it,  "come 
to  life"  and  that  the  wonderful  friendship  had 
revived.  Mrs.  Ormsby  was  a  little  sharp  when 
her  son  told  her  that  the  old  correspondence  was  in 
full  swing  again ;  it  seemed  that  now  poor  dangling 
Oliver  was  not  to  have  even  the  pleasure  of 
dangling;  for  all  Clara's  time,  not  spent  at  her 
mother's  bedside,  was  given  to  writing  letters 
to  this  Fanny  Morrison — no,  Herbert.  Even  the 
Sunday-afternoon  walk  was  sometimes  omitted 
because  Clara  was  "busy  writing." 

Old  Chester  thought  the  whole  affair  rather 
foolish.  Clara  was  nearly  forty-five,  and  forty- 
five  is  too  old  for  ecstasies.  Old  Chester  was 
inclined  to  be  disapproving;  then,  suddenly,  some 
thing  happened  which  made  people  forget  every 
thing  but  the  old  admiration  for  the  "good  daugh 
ter," — admiration,  and  a  peculiarly  tender  pity, 
for,  after  all  Clara's  years  of  devotion  and  ser 
vice,  all  the  loglike  years,  Mrs.  Hale  —  entirely 
alone — had  suddenly  and  quietly  stopped  breath 
ing.  It  might  have  happened  at  any  moment; 
nothing  could  have  prevented  it,  and  no  one 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

could  have  foreseen  it.  Many  times  in  these  long 
years  the  inert  body  had  been  alone, — in  that 
small  household  it  was  impossible  that  some  one 
should  be  with  her  always.  Only,  on  this  particu 
lar  day  and  moment,  Clara  was  in  the  next  room, 
"writing  to  that  Fanny  Morrison!"  and — her 
mother  died. 

Of  course  the  shock  to  Clara  was  great,  and 
the  effect  of  it  was  very  strange.  The  renewal 
of  the  old  friendship  had  stirred  her  faintly — 
but  the  reality  of  death  burst  in  upon  her  stag 
nant  life  like  the  surge  of  a  tidal-wave.  And  to 
it  was  added  that  soul-shaking  thing,  remorse. 
For,  unreasonable  as  it  was,  she  reproached  her 
self  for  that  lonely  dying.  This  new  pain  awoke 
her  mind  as  a  rough  hand  might  arouse  a  sleep 
ing  body.  Her  eyes,  in  their  mists  of  tears, 
looked  about  her  in  scared  bewilderment,  and  she 
clung  to  Oliver  with  a  sort  of  frantic  helplessness. 
Mrs.  Ormsby  told  Old  Chester  she  believed  that, 
at  last,  her  poor  son  was  going  to  be  appreciated ! 

"I  wish  she  was  anything  of  a  housekeeper, 
though,"  she  said,  sighing.  "I'll  have  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Oliver's  flannels;  she'll  never  think  of 
'em!"  Mrs.  Ormsby  was  really  quite  happy  over 
the  situation;  she  was  not  very  fond  of  Clara, 
but  she  wanted  Oliver  to  have  what  he  wanted. 
Yet  Oliver  was  never  further  from  his  heart's  de 
sire  than  now — and,  poor  fellow!  he  knew  it, 
though  his  mother  did  not.  Clara  was  staggering 
under  the  shock  of  the  destruction  of  the  habits 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

of  life.     For  nearly  thirty  years  she  had  lived  in 
the  monotonous  round  of  small,  pottering  duties; 
for  the  last  ten  she  had  lived  like  a  machine' 
simply  with  and  for  that  silent  figure  on  the  bed. 
Now,  suddenly,  the  motive  power  of  the  machine 
was  withdrawn;    everything  stopped.     Her  cling 
ing  to  Oliver  was  only  the  clinging  to  a  little 
vestige  of  the  old  routine  of  life.     And  he  realized 
it.     If  he  had  had  any  illusions  they  vanished  the 
day  of  Mrs.  Hale's  funeral.     He  had  stood  beside 
her  in  the  snow  at  the  grave  and  felt  her  quiver 
at  that  sound  which  is  like  no  other  sound  on 
earth:    "Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes"— and  the 
dust  and  ashes  fall  upon  the  coffin  down  there 
between  the  walls  of  earth.     The  crumbling  rattle 
of  that  handful  of  gravel  does  not  stir  the  sleeper 
under  the  coffin-lid,  but  the  mourner  awakes  to 
every  reality  of  loss.     Clara,  hearing  that  sound, 
leaned  against  Oliver,  and  he  felt  the  shudder  that 
ran  through  her;   he  put  his  arm  around  her,  and 
she  accepted  it  as  she  would  have  accepted  any 
other  human  arm;    she  leaned  on  him,   as  she 
might  have  leaned  against  a  stone,  or  the  trunk 
of  a  tree.     He  knew  then  that  he  would  never 
again  ask  her  to  marry  him.     He  would  always 
love  her,  he  told  himself,  but  he  would  love  her 
differently,  for  she  was  an  angel. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  he  was  like  her  shadow. 
Every  evening  when  he  came  home  from  his  work 
he  stopped  at  her  door;  every  morning  he  looked 
in  on  her  before  he  started  for  Upper  Chester. 

352 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

She  was  quieter  than  ever.  Perhaps  the  cessation 
of  those  hours  of  reading  aloud  plunged  her  into 
deeper  waters  of  silence.  But  although  she  did 
not  often  speak,  Oliver  felt  that  her  heart  was 
quite  open  to  him.  A  crystal  heart!  Perhaps 
that  was  why  it  was  so  cold.  But,  being  crystal, 
it  could  not  conceal  anything;  its  sorrow  and  its 
self-reproach  and  its  loneliness  were  so  obvious 
that  words  were  not  needed.  Feeling  this,  the 
discovery  of  something  in  her  mind  of  which  he 
had  never  dreamed,  was  a  distinct  shock  to  him. 
It  was  about  two  months  after  Mrs.  Hale's  death. 
He  had  been  sitting  at  Clara's  fireside,  telling  her 
about  a  book  he  had  been  reading,  when,  noticing 
that  she  was  not  listening  to  him,  he  swallowed  a 
half -sucked  "kiss,"  and  took  his  flute  out  of  his 
pocket.  He  was  just  about  to  begin  the  faint 
tootle-tootle  of  the  "  Mocking-Bird "  when  she 
spoke.  In  his  amazement  he  kept  the  flute 
against  his  lips  and  stared  at  her  in  complete 
silence. 

"I  am  all  alone,"  she  ended. 

"Clara,  you  have  me!" 

"I  have  nothing  to  do." 

"Your  house?" 

"Fanny  has  no  house." 

"But  to  ask  her  to  come  and  live  with  you!" 
he  said,  with  a  gasp.  "Why,  my  dear  Clara!" 
For  a  minute  he  was  silent  with  dismay.  Then 
he  began  to  wipe  his  flute.  ' '  It's  a  very  dangerous 
thing  to  ask  anybody  to  live  with  you." 

353 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"She  isn't  'anybody.'    She  is  my  Friend." 

"But  you  don't  know  her  the  least  bit  in  the 
world!  She's  an  absolute  stranger." 

"A  stranger?     She  is  my  Friend!' ' 

"Clara,  consider;  you  haven't  seen  her  for — 
how  many  years,  did  you  tell  me?  Thirty!  Good 
gracious!  I  tell  you  you  don't  know  her  any 
more  than  Adam!" 

"I  have  known  her  all  my  life." 

"Ask  her  to  visit  you  for  a  fortnight,"  he 
urged;  "for  a  month,  even;  then,  if  you  like 
her—" 

"Like9  my  Friend?" 

"If  you  like  her,  ask  her  to  make  a  long  visit. 
But  don't,  for  Heaven's  sake,  put  on  a  sticking- 
plaster!" 

'Oliver!" 

But  Oliver  Ormsby  was  not  to  be  stayed:  "It's 
a  very  great  risk!" 

"She  is  coming  next  week,"  Clara  said. 

Oliver  was  silent.  He  was  very  much  troubled. 
It  was  not  only  the  "risk,"  it  was  the  shock  of 
discovering  in  an  absolutely  familiar  landscape 
something  entirely  new.  Who  could  have  dreamed 
of  anything  positive  in  this  gently  negative  mind? 
Clara  had  not  had  a  new  idea  in  twenty  years, 
and  Oliver  Ormsby  had  loved  her  for  her  sterile 
serenity.  Now,  suddenly,  she  had  an  idea  which 
would  change  her  whole  method  of  living!  No 
wonder  Oliver  was  startled.  Indeed,  he  was  so 
disturbed  that  he  stopped  on  his  way  home  at 

354 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

the  rectory  and  poured  out  his  troubles  to  Dr. 
Lavendar.  .  .  .  ''And  she  has  actually  asked  this 
Fanny  Morrison  to  come  and  live  with  her  for 
ever!"  he  ended. 

"Heaven  is  to  be  their  home,  then,  I  presume?" 
said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"Far  from  it — Old  Chester!  You  know  it's 
folly,  Dr.  Lavendar.  They  are  absolute  strangers." 

"They  are,"  Dr.  Lavendar  agreed. 

"This  woman  will  be  a  perfect  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea!" 

"Oh,  she  may  be  all  right,"  Dr.  Lavendar  com 
forted  him.  "The  Morrisons  were  nice  people, 
though  the  father  was  the  kind  that  talked  you 
to  death.  But  of  course  it's  rash  in  Clara  to  give 
her  an  indefinite  invitation." 

"Do  go  and  see  her,  sir,"  Oliver  urged. 

And  Dr.  Lavendar  said  he  would. 

He  did;  but  his  sensible  words  slipped  off  her 
mind  like  water — "off  a  rose-leaf,  I  suppose?" 
Oliver  interpolated,  despairingly. 

"I  was  going  to  say  off  a  duck's  back,"  Dr. 
Lavendar  said,  "but  rose-leaf  will  do.  I  believe 
you  write  poetry,  Oliver?" 

Oliver  was  equal  to  the  question.  "Do  I  look 
like  a  poet,  sir?"  he  said,  grinning. 

"All  the  same,  I  have  faith  to  believe  you  do." 
the  old  man  insisted. 

"Faith  is  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen," 
Oliver  parried. 

Dr.  Lavendar  chuckled.  "I  told  Clara,"  he 
355 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

said,  "that  thirty  years'  absence  makes  strangers 
of  most  of  us." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

She  implied  that  one  might  make  the  same  ob 
jection  to  meeting  one's  friends  in  heaven." 

"That's  rather  unanswerable,"  Clara's  lover 
said,  ruefully. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  the  old  man  said;  "our  friends 
in  heaven  are  with  their  Heavenly  Father.  If  we 
keep  close  to  Him  we  can't  get  far  from  them." 

"Oh,"  said  Oliver,  respectfully;  "yes;  certain 
ly;  of  course.  But,  Dr.  Lavendar,  don't  you 
think  we  can  keep  this  woman  from  coming?" 

"I  don't  believe  we  can.  She's  forlorn,  and 
practically  homeless.  Clara  has  a  house,  and  a 
little  money,  and  nothing  to  do.  No,  you  can't 
stop  it.  But  it's  possible  Mrs.  Herbert  won't 
like  it  when  she  gets  here.  That  will  stop  it." 

"No  such  luck,"  Oliver  said,  gloomily. 


in 


Dr.  Lavendar  was  right;   of  course  it  could  not 
be  stopped. 

It  will  be  a  favor  to  me  [Clara  had  written  Mrs.  Herbert], 
a  kindness.  Won't  you  come?  My  house  is  yours-  my 
money  is  yours.  I  will  be  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I  live 
if  you  will  come.  I  have  nobody  in  the  world  now  but  you. 
Remember  our  vow— we  promised  to  love  each  other  for 
ever.  You  must  live  with  me  as  long  as  I  live. 

When  she  wrote  those  words  Clara  was  holding 
in  her  hand  the  page  torn  from  the  old  spelling- 

356 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

book,  and  looking  at  that  faint  brown  scrawl: 
"Fanny  Morr—  It  seemed  to  her  that  Fanny 
could  not  say  "no"! 

It  seemed  so  to  Fanny,  too.  And  who  can  won 
der?  Who  could  say  "no"  to  such  an  appeal? 
At  least  what  lonely,  almost  penniless  woman 
could  say  "no"?  She  made  a  few  perfunctory 
protestations,  but  at  the  end  of  her  letter  she 
yielded : 

I  am  crazy  to  be  with  you — my  own  darling  Clara;  and, 
as  you  say,  we  will  never  part  again.  I'll  burn  my  bridges. 
I'll  sell  everything  I  own,  and  bid  my  friends  here  "good- 
by"  for  ever!  I  will  start  on  the  fifteenth. 

When  Fanny  wrote  that  letter,  in  the  third- 
rate  boarding-house  in  San  Francisco,  the  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  added  a  postscript: 

There  isn't  anybody  who  cares  whether  I  am  alive  or  dead, 
except  you! 

Yes,  Clara  cared.  Cared  so  much  that  Fanny 
was  to  have  no  more  worry  about  money,  no  more 
loneliness,  no  more  discomfort.  The  last  twenty 
years  had  been  all  worry  and  loneliness — "and 
fighting  just  to  keep  alive,"  as  she  had  told  Clara 
in  an  earlier  letter. 

How  Clara  had  answered  those  bitter  words! 
Fanny's  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  sheer  comfort 
as  she  remembered  the  tender  assurances: 

You  shall  never  be  lonely  again — or  poor.  I  love  you, 
and  all  that  I  have  is  yours. 

357 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

Fanny  put  her  head  down  on  the  wabbly  table 
of  her  hall  bedroom,  and  cried  hard.  Then  she 
got  up,  dipped  the  corner  of  the  meager  boarding- 
house  towel  in  the  water-pitcher,  sopped  her  eyes, 
and  began  joyfully  to  pack. 

'T  must  take  the  Vow'  with  me,"  she  thought, 
smiling.  She  stopped  once  to  look  at  herself  in 
the  glass.  "I  suppose  I've  changed,"  she  said, 
doubtfully.  A  large,  worn,  honest  face,  a  face  full 
of  keen  and  friendly  interest  in  every  human  ex 
perience,  her  own  and  other  people's,  stared  back 
at  her  from  the  mirror.  It  left  no  doubt  as  to 
the  "change."  " Clara  won't  know  me,"  she 
thought,  laughing.  "Well,  very  likely  she  has 
changed,  too!  But  my  heart  hasn't  changed!" 
she  reassured  herself,  gaily.  "I'm  just  as  fond  of 
Clara  as  ever;  and  it's  wonderful  to  think  she 
wants  me.  Oh,  how  much  I  have  to  tell  her!" 

The  packing-up  did  not  take  long — she  had  so 
few  possessions;  but  she  gave  herself  time  to 
see  all  her  friends  and  her  husband's  relatives, 
and  to  spread  the  news  of  her  good  fortune.  "It's 
a  real  good-by,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  live  with 
my  friend  for  the  rest  of  my  days."  .  .  .  Then  she 
started.  In  the  long  journey  East,  thinking  of 
all  the  things  she  had  to  tell  Clara,  all  the  things 
that  had  happened  in  these  thirty  years,  Fanny 
wondered  how  she  should  ever  get  through  her 
story!  She  had  had  a  hard  life,  but  remembering 
it  was  a  delight,  because  even  its  hardships  had 
been  interesting.  Clara  would  want  to  know  every 

358 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

single  thing  that  had  happened  to  her.  Well, 
Fanny  would  tell  her.  What  good  talks  they 
would  have!  Then  she  would  stop  and  think  of 
Clara's  life.  .  .  .  How  strange  she  never  married; 
how  she  must  miss  her  mother.  Well,  Fanny 
would  do  her  best  to  comfort  her.  She  would  do 
everything  on  earth  for  her !  It  seemed  to  Fanny 
that  she  could  not  do  enough  to  show  her  grati 
tude  for  this  wonderful  thing — Clara's  continuing 
friendship!  "She  shall  never  regret  it,"  she  told 
herself  again  and  again ;  "  I  will  never,  never  leave 
her!" 

Far  off  in  Old  Chester,  Clara,  too,  was  thinking 
of  her  good  fortune.  Fanny  was  coming  to  live 
with  her  "for  ever. "  Her  mind  was  so  alert  that 
she  not  only  talked,  but  in  a  pottering  way  she 
acted.  She  made  a  hundred  nervous  preparations 
— new  paper  in  Fanny's  room,  new  curtains  in 
the  windows,  plans  for  Fanny's  comfort.  Her 
whole  expression  changed;  she  was  awake!  She 
counted  the  hours  until  Fanny  could  arrive.  And 
at  last  the  hour  came.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  April  day  of  sudden  showers  and 
soft  winds,  and  the  first  daffodil  of  the  year. 
The  afternoon  stage  came  jogging  and  tugging 
along  the  road;  Clara  was  waiting  on  her  door 
step,  and  when  the  stage  drew  up  at  the  end  of 
the  garden  she  went  running  down  the  path. 
A  stout  lady  with  a  pleasant  red  face  got  out, 
and  Clara  looked  beyond  her  for  Fanny.  The 
lady  put  a  bird-cage  on  the  sidewalk,  then,  drop- 

359 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

ping  a  bandbox  and  stumbling  over  it,  rushed 
forward  with  extended  arms.  Clara  stepped  back 
for  just  one  quivering  minute. 

"Fanny?"  she  said,  and  was  folded  in  a  smother 
ing  embrace. 

"I  knew  you  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  you !"  said 
Fanny. 

Both  women  wept;  then,  with  their  arms  about 
each  other,  they  entered  the  house.  Fanny  was 
so  overcome  and  so  out  of  breath  that  she  got  no 
farther  than  the  hall  sofa. 

"Oh,  Clara!"  she  gasped;  "Clara!" 

Clara,  trembling,  held  the  fat  hand  in  its  worn 
black  kid  glove  against  her  breast.  She  could 
not  speak.  Fanny,  fumbling  with  her  other  hand 
for  her  handkerchief,  blew  her  nose  and  laughed. 

"To  think  I'm  here!"  She  looked  around  the 
hall — at  the  faded  landscape  paper,  at  the  ma 
hogany  table  under  the  old  mirror,  at  the  yellow 
ing  engravings  on  the  wall — the  "Destruction  of 
Nineveh"  and  the  "Death-bed  of  Daniel  Web 
ster"  ;  through  the  open  doorway  at  the  other  end 
of  the  passage,  one  could  see  the  faintly  greening 
grass  under  a  big  locust-tree;  it  was  all  the  same 
— all  just  the  same  as  when  she  saw  it  last,  more 
than  thirty  years  ago!  Nothing  had  changed; 
not  Old  Chester,  not  the  house,  not  Clara,  not 
friendship.  Nothing  had  changed — except  Fanny 
herself. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "think  of  all  that  has  hap 
pened  since  I  saw  this  hall!  I  remember  your 

360 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

mother  stood  right  there  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
I  can  see  her  now.  She  had  on  a  black-and- 
white-check  silk.  Oh,  Clara!" 

Clara  nodded;    she  was  still  trembling. 

"I  little  thought  of  all  that  was  going  to  happen 
to  me!  And  to  you,  my  darling  Clara!  Your 
poor,  dear  mother!  But,  oh,  Clara,  my  poor  Hale! 
Since  he  died  I've  been  so  lonely.  You'd  have 
thought  my  husband's  relatives  would  have  been 
a  comfort;  but  they  weren't.  As  my  landlady 
said,  your  husband's  relatives  hardly  ever  are; 
oh,  she  was  such  a  sweet  woman!  And  she's  had 
so  much  trouble  herself — her  husband  left  her  for 
another  woman;  well,  I've  never  had  that  sort 
of  trouble,  I'm  thankful  to  say — Charles  was  the 
best  man  that  ever  lived.  She  had  three  daughters, 
and  they  all  died  of  diphtheria — did  you  ever  hear 
of  anything  so  awful?  But  I  wish  you  could  hear 
her  talk  of  them!  She's  a  Spiritualist,  and  gets 
comfort  out  of  that;  dear  knows  I  wish  I  was! 
I  was  telling  one  of  the  ladies  on  the  train,  a 
Mrs.  Elder,  of  Buffalo  (such  a  fine  woman,  but 
lame;  she  has  to  use  crutches),  some  of  her  ex 
periences;  she  said  they  were  wonderful!  Her 
husband's  aunt  had  some  strange  experiences,  too ; 
I  must  tell  you  about  them.  Well,  I  wish  I'd 
"had  any  myself!  My  poor  Hale!  If  I  could  have 
a  word  from  him  I'd — " 

"Fanny,  you  must  be  tired,"  Clara  broke  in; 
"dear  Fanny,  you  must — rest.'1  Clara  spoke 
breathlessly.  "Come  up  to  your  room." 

361 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

She  had  retreated  to  the  lowest  step  of  the 
stairs,  almost  as  if  she  had  been  swept  there  by 
the  torrent  of  words. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  tired!"  Fanny  said,  cheerfully. 
"Clara!  Let  me  look  at  you.  Well,  my  good 
ness!  You've  not  changed  a  bit!  Oh,  Clara, 
let  me  fix  your  collar.  You  are  just  the  same 
dear,  darling,  untidy  thing!  Oh,  my  bird!  I 
hope  you  haven't  a  cat?  I  must  go  and  get 
Dicky,  and — " 

Clara  followed  her  as  she  hurried  out  to  collect 
the  bird  and  the  bandbox  and  a  few  other  things 
which  she  had  left  at  the  roadside.  Then  they 
went  up  to  the  room  that  had  been  prepared  for 
the  guest, — no,  not  a  "guest" !  "It  is  your  home, 
Fanny.  Yours  as  much  as  mine,"  Clara  whis 
pered. 

Fanny  gave  her  a  hearty  kiss.  "Oh,  my  darling 
Clara!"  she  said,  "how good  you  are!"  The  bird 
cage  which  Clara  was  carrying  banged  against 
the  banisters,  and  she  dropped  a  parcel  or  two, 
which  Fanny,  laughing  excitedly,  picked  up.  "The 
hall  bedroom  in  that  horrid  boarding-house  where 
I've  been  all  winter  was  freezing  cold,"  she  said; 
"though  it  had  a  sourthern  exposure;  I  always 
insist  on  a  southern  exposure.  As  I  used  to  say 
to  my  poor,  dear  boy,  'You  never  would  have 
taken  that  cold  if  you  had  only  insisted'-  Oh, 
Clara,  you  can't  imagine  what  I  have  suf — 
Clara,  this  stair-carpet  needs  to  be  tacked  down 
better;  I'll  do  it.  I  tell  you  what,  my  dear,  I'm 

362 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

going  to  take  care  of  you!  Even  Charles's  rela 
tives  had  to  admit  that  I  took  the  best  of  care 
of—" 

And  so  on,  and  on,  and  on.  The  stream  of 
talk  never  stopped,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  Dicky 
began  to  sing.  Clara  looked  at  him  with  dazed 
eyes;  suddenly,  she  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

"I  am  going  to  get  you  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  called 
back,  and  fled. 

In  the  upper  hall  she  stood  for  a  few  minutes, 
perfectly  motionless,  breathing  quickly,  her  hands 
opening  and  closing,  and  her  face  very  red.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  in  a  high  wind,  and  had 
not  yet  got  her  breath. 

She  sent  Maggie  up  with  the  tea,  and  that 
faithful  woman  came  down-stairs  full  of  enthusi 
asm  for  the  new  member  of  the  family. 

" There!  She  has  a  tongue  in  her  head,"  Mag 
gie  exulted;  "I  like  folks  that  talk  some.  This 
house  is  silent  as  the  tomb.  And  I  could  hear  her 
bird  singing.  I  guess  my  hearing  is  improved!" 
Maggie  was  immensely  pleased. 

"Mrs.  Herbert  is  wonderful,  Maggie,"  Miss 
Clara  said,  "and  she's  my  best  Friend." 

Old  Chester  was  delighted  with  Fanny.  "She's 
very  good-hearted,"  Old  Chester  said. 

"Oliver  likes  her,"  Mrs.  Ormsby  said;  "and  I 
hear  she's  a  fine  housekeeper." 

"She  takes  right  hold  of  the  work,"  old  Maggie 
declared. 

24  363 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"She's  too  fat,"  Miss  Ellen's  girls  objected; 
"and  her  hands  are  so  red." 

"She's  gone  through  some  rough  weather," 
Captain  Price  said,  "and  she  wants  patching; 
but  her  timbers  are  sound.  All  she  needs  is  a 
captain.  Oliver,  can't  you  take  out  papers?" 

"She  would  be  just  the  wife  for  Jim  Williams," 
Martha  King  confided  to  her  husband;  "she  is 
such  a  conversationalist." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Dr.  King. 

Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  the 
new  arrival;  but  Miss  Clara  said  only  one  thing: 
"She  is  my  Friend." 

As  the  summer  passed,  Mrs.  Herbert,  long  be 
reft  of  home  joys  and  toils,  gradually,  with 
Clara's  silent  acquiescence,  did  most  of  the  house 
keeping;  she  darned  Clara's  stockings  and  the 
worn  old  table  linen;  she  dusted,  she  arranged 
flowers,  she  planned  the  meals;  she  even,  good- 
naturedly,  shoved  old  Maggie  aside,  and  did  a 
little  cooking,  "for  I  love  to  make  nice  things 
for  you,  my  darling  Clara,"  she  said. 

But  whether  she  cooked,  or  cleaned,  or  did 
Clara's  mending,  she  talked  loudly  every  minute, 
to  the  shrill  accompaniment  of  Dicky's  incessant 
singing.  Maggie,  who  had  drowsed  most  of  the 
time  since  she  entered  Miss  Clara's  service,  woke 
up.  She  would  stand  open-mouthed,  with  her 
hands  in  the  dough,  listening  to  Mrs.  Herbert, 
or  Dick,  or  both  together.  Everything  that  Mrs. 
Herbert  said  interested  her;  she  was  enthralled 

364 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

by  an  account  of  the  minister  of  the  Congrega 
tional  church  who  got  married  and  left  Mrs. 
Herbert's  boarding-house,  though  he  had  said  he 
knew  he  would  never  get  such  broiled  ham  for 
his  breakfast  as  she  gave  him;  his  wife  was  well- 
meaning,  but  young,  and  had  no  training;  her 
mother  had  been  in  an  insane-asylum,  poor  girl! 
Mrs.  Herbert  was  so  sorry  for  insane  people.  One 
lady  she  knew  wouldn't  wear  anything  blue, 
which  was  the  beginning  of  insan —  And  so  on, 
and  on,  and  on,  Maggie  gaping  with  interest, 
while  her  mistress,  in  the  dining-room,  surrep 
titiously  threw  an  apron  over  Dicky's  cage  to 
keep  him  quiet. 

"She  is  as  good  as  a  novel,"  Oliver  said,  after 
hearing  some  of  Mrs.  Herbert's  stories.  She  was 
better!  For  she  had  actually  seen  some  of  the 
happenings  she  detailed:  She  knew  a  man  whose 
brother  had  been  murdered,  which  was  almost 
as  interesting  as  knowing  the  murderer.  She  had 
a  friend  who  had  been  divorced  ("What!"  said 
Old  Chester;  "how  shocking!  But  you  meet  all 
kinds  of  people  in  the  West ").  She  had  employed 
a  Chinaman  in  her  kitchen! 

"Did  he  pray  to  an  idol?"  asked  one  of  Miss 
Ellen's  girls,  excitedly;  then,  with  regretful  sec 
ond  thought,  "Oh,  I  suppose  he  was  converted?" 

"Not  he,  I'm  thankful  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Her 
bert;  "I  wouldn't  have  a  Christian  Chinaman  in 
my  kitchen!" 

"How  she  does  talk!"  said  Old  Chester,  horri- 
365 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

fied.  "Well,  at  any  rate,  she  is  devoted  to  Miss 
Clara." 

She  was  devoted.  The  old  affection  had  welled 
up  in  Fanny's  heart  as  honestly  as  ever,  and  she 
put  it  into  words,  endless  words;  excited,  impul 
sive  words;  loud  words,  sincere  to  the  point  of 
fatuousness.  Clara's  responses  became  briefer 
and  briefer. 

"Oh,  Clara,  darling,  I  love  you  so!"  Fanny 
would  say,  bursting  into  Clara's  room  in  the  morn 
ing  without  knocking,  and  throwing  large  bare 
arms  around  Clara's  delicate,  shrinking  shoulders. 
' '  I  do  love  you  so !  As  I  said  to  Maggie  yesterday, 
'I've  known  Miss  Clara  ever  since  she  was  a 
little,  tiny  thing,  and—  What  is  the  matter, 
Clara?" 

"I— I  think  I'll  shut  the  door.  The  bird  is 
singing  so  loudly,"  Clara  would  say,  wriggling 
out  of  the  big  embrace. 

"Oh,  I'll  shut  it,"  Fanny  would  protest,  good- 
naturedly.  "Don't  be  late  for  breakfast!"  she 
would  call  back;  "and,  Clara,  do  put  your  collar 
on  straight!"  Then  the  door  would  slam  behind 
her. 

Left  to  herself,  Clara  would  pin  on  her  collar 
with  quivering  fingers.  The  comments  upon  her 
clothes  irked  her,  and  oh,  that  bird!  But  she 
loved  Fanny.  When  she  was  by  herself,  in  the 
blessed  silence  of  her  own  room,  she  would  think 
how  much  she  loved  her.  She  did  not  realize,  of 
course,  that  the  Fanny  she  loved  was  not  this 

366 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

large,  loud,  talkative  lady,  but  a  freckled  girl, 
with  a  rosy  face,  and  chestnut  curls  caught  back 
with  a  hair-ribbon  that  matched  her  own. 

The  Clara  that  Fanny  loved,  however,  was 
this  gentle,  inexact,  inarticulate  person  of  forty- 
five,  who  had  been  just  as  gentle,  just  as  inexact, 
just  as  speechless,  at  fourteen.  A  Clara  to  pro 
tect,  to  spare,  to  persuade — even  to  pity. 

"Poor  Clara!"  Fanny  used  to  say,  heartily, 
"she  doesn't  know  how  to  make  herself  comfort 
able."  Clara's  lack  of  order  was  a  real  annoyance 
to  her,  but  she  was  very  patient  with  it.  It  was 
in  the  early  fall  that,  with  almost  tearful  tender 
ness  over  one  of  Clara's  vaguenesses,  she  said 
"poor,  dear  Clara."  Now  it  is  a  curious  thing — 
you  can  say  "poor"  Clara,  or  "dear"  Clara,  but 
if  you  say  "poor,  dear  Clara"  you  compose  love's 
epitaph.  "Poor  dear"  marks  the  death  of  af 
fection  between  equals.  It  is  not  virile  enough 
for  disapproval,  and  not  unqualified  enough  for 
love.  It  always  means  impatience,  and  sometimes 
it  means  contempt.  One  hears  it  applied  to  par 
ents  who  have  fallen  behind  in  the  march — "poor, 
dear  father,"  "poor,  dear  mother."  Clara  was 
thirty  years  behind  Fanny.  She  had  stood  still 
in  her  sheltered  serenity,  while  Fanny,  efficient 
and  sensible,  had  forged  ahead  into  the  realities  of 
grief  and  worry  and  happiness  and  disappointment 
— in  fact,  into  Life.  Only  two  realities  had  ever 
touched  Clara — the  pain  of  that  parting,  thirty 
years  ago,  and  the  later  pain  of  her  mother's  death. 

367 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

Now,  little  by  little,  she  was  sinking  back  into 
the  passivity  which  lay  between  her  two  emotional 
experiences;  a  passivity  against  which  Fanny's 
affectionate  confidences  dashed  themselves  and 
fell  back  in  pained  astonishment.  Clara  used  to 
listen  to  her  voluble  recital  of  her  experiences 
with  a  look  of  shrinking  endurance;  sometimes 
it  was  endurance  without  listening,  the  flood  of 
words  pouring  over  her  mind  and  leaving  no  im 
pression  whatever.  But  sometimes  endurance 
broke  down.  When  Clara  had  heard  Fanny's 
voice  and  the  canary's  together,  up  to  a  certain 
point,  she  would  suddenly  slip  away  to  the  shel 
ter  of  her  own  room,  and  there,  her  hands  over  her 
ears,  her  flushed  face  pressing  against  the  wall  as 
if  to  cool  it,  she  would  whisper,  ''Oh,  oh,  oh!" 
She  never  said  more  than  this. 

However,  to  the  outside  world  the  experiment 
of  having  Fanny  live  with  her  had  turned  out 
very  well.  Oliver  Ormsby  even  reproached  him 
self  for  his  forebodings  about  it.  The  life,  to 
gether,  which  was  to  be  "for  ever,"  had  run  some 
six  months  before  he  began  to  be  anxious.  He 
would  listen,  grinning  with  amusement,  to  Fanny's 
stories,  then,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  them,  he 
would  catch  that  look  of  inarticulate  endurance 
in  Clara's  eyes.  After  this  had  happened  half  a 
dozen  times  he  began  to  be  uneasy  even  while  he 
laughed.  His  first  realization  of  the  situation 
came  one  Sunday  evening,  when  they  all  three  sat 
about  the  lire  in  the  parlor,  and  Fanny  told  a  story 

368 


MISS   CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

which  turned  on  letter- writing ;  it  ended  in  some 
such  way  as  this:  "But  I  sympathized  with  Mr. 
Smith.  I  find  it  hard  to  write  letters  myself. 
Clara  knows  I  do,  don't  you,  Clara?  But  I  told 
him,  said  I,  'Well,  Mr.  Smith,  a  long  correspon 
dence  is  like  a  pair  of  trousers  without  any  gal 
luses — hard  to  keep  up ! ' ' 

Oliver,  laughing,  caught  sight  of  the  shocked 
bewilderment  in  Clara's  eyes,  and  his  face  sobered. 
That  allusion  to  galluses  had  offended  her!  Any 
thing  indelicate  offended  Clara.  "Mrs.  Herbert 
and  I  are  a  coarse  pair,"  he  told  himself,  uneasily. 
He  repeated  the  mild  joke  to  his  mother,  rather 
tentatively,  to  see  just  how  coarse  he  and  Mrs. 
Herbert  were,  and  old  Mrs.  Ormsby  laughed 
quite  as  heartily  as  he  had  done,  which  comforted 
him  a  little.  But  he  realized  that  to  Clara's  mind 
Fanny's  talk  was  like  the  touch  of  rude  fingers  on 
a  butterfly's  wing. 

"It's  hard  on  Clara,"  he  thought,  frowning. 
And  after  that  he  watched  the  "friends"  pretty 
closely. 

However,  they  got  through  that  winter. 

It  was  in  the  early  spring  that  Oliver,  opening 
the  front  door  one  Sunday  afternoon,  almost  ran 
into  Clara,  fleeing,  scarlet-faced,  from  the  parlor. 
She  stopped,  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  and 
seemed  to  gasp  for  breath;  then  she  said,  pant 
ing,  "She  ...  talks." 

She  would  have  rushed  on  up-stairs,  but  he  de 
tained  her. 

369 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"I've  come  to  take  you  out  to  walk,"  he  said, 
soothingly. 

She  nodded,  and  was  gone.  While  he  waited 
for  her  to  put  on  her  bonnet  Mrs.  Herbert  came 
out  into  the  hall.  She  was  plainly  perplexed. 

"Something  is  the  matter  with  Clara,"  she  said; 
"I'm  afraid  she's  nervous.  Dicky  began  to  sing 
—he's  the  greatest  singer!  A  bird-dealer  in  San 
Francisco,  a  Mr.  Marks,  who  was  very  fond  of 
snakes — one  of  them  bit  his  wife's  mother;  horrid 
woman,  she  was! — he  told  me  Dicky  was  the 
finest  singer  he  had  ever  had;  and  I  said,  'Yes, 
he  is!'  And  I  was  telling  Clara  about  it,  and  sud 
denly  she  dashed  out  of  the  room — 

At  that  moment  Clara  came  down -stairs  as 
silently  as  a  shadow.  Fanny  gave  her  a  hearty 
kiss,  and  said  a  walk  would  do  her  good. 

"You  are  nervous,  Clara;  I  was  just  saying  to 
Mr.  Ormsby,  'Clara  is  ner—  Now,  don't  hurry 
home.  Oh,  Clara,  wait;  let  me  straighten  that 
bow.  I'll  help  Maggie  with  supper.  And— 

But  Oliver  had  got  her  out  of  the  house,  and 
Fanny's  cheerful  voice  died  away  behind  them. 
He  hoped  she  would  tell  him  just  what  had  hap 
pened,  but  she  was  speechless.  Indeed,  those  two 
disloyal  words,  flung  at  him  when  he  entered,  had 
taken  all  her  strength. 

It  was  in  July  that  the  situation  became  acute. 
Something  happened:  one  morning  Fanny  found 
the  door  of  Dicky's  cage  open.  Dicky  was  gone! 
She  stood  by  the  empty  cage  aghast.  "How 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

could  he  get  out?  He  couldn't  have  opened  the 
door!  Clara,  do  you  suppose  Maggie  has  been 
tampering  with — " 

"I  did  it,"  Clara  said,  whitely. 

Fanny  turned  and  looked  at  her  in  actual 
fright.  Had  Clara  gone  crazy? 

"I  couldn't  stand  him,"  Clara  whispered. 

The  two  women  stared  at  each  other;  each 
suddenly  knew  that  the  other  was  a  stranger  to 
her.  There  was  a  moment  of  appalled  silence, 
then  Fanny  burst  out: 

"I  do  everything  for  you,  and  you  begrudge 
me  my  bird!  He  will  freeze!"  she  said,  fiercely. 

"He  can't  freeze,  in  July,"  Clara  stammered. 

"He  will  next  winter,"  Fanny  said,  in  a  sup 
pressed  voice.  This  time  it  was  she  who  flew  out 
of  the  room.  She  fled  farther  than  Clara.  She 
went  over  to  Mrs.  Ormsby's,  and  blurted  the  whole 
thing  out.  "I'm  just  distracted!"  she  said.  "I'm 
so  unhappy!  I  try  to  take  care  of  Clara — she's 
as  helpless  as  a  child  about  her  housekeeping, 
and  her  clothes  make  me  frantic;  but  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter  with  her.  She  seems  to 
resent  it  if  I  sew  on  a  button  for  her!  I  made  her 
take  off  her  sacque  so  I  could  sew  on  a  button, 
and  she  was  as — as  sulky  as  a  child.  But  I  can't 
bear  to  see  untidiness.  And  now  to  think  that 
she  should  let  my  bird  out !  My  poor  little  Dicky 
— the  only  thing  I  had  left!  I  declare,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

"Go  home,"  Mrs.  Ormsby  said. 
37* 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

"I  haven't  any  home,"  Fanny  said,  despairingly. 
"I  sold  every  stick  of  furniture  I  owned.  And  my 
husband's  relatives  wouldn't  want  me,  and — and 
I  haven't  got  the  money  to  go  back,  anyhow." 

"I've  no  doubt  Clara  would  help  you,"  Mrs. 
Ormsby  began. 

Fanny  shook  her  head.  "I  know  she  would  help 
me,  but—  Then  it  all  came  out :  "I'd  be  ashamed 
to  go  back.  I  told  my  husband's  relatives  I  was 
going  to  live  here  for  the  rest  of  my  life,"  she  con 
fessed.  Tears  of  wounded  vanity  stood  in  her 
honest  eyes.  "Oh,  she's  so  cold  to  me,  Mrs. 
Ormsby;  and  we've  been  friends  all  our  lives! 
And  I  do  love  her  so;  I'd  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  her!  I  tell  her  so  every  day.  I  say, 
'I  do  love  you,  Clara;  I'd  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  you' — " 

"Except  stop  talking,"  Mrs.  Ormsby  said, 
under  her  breath. 

"Yesterday  I  said,  'I'll  make  you  a  Dutch 
apple-cake,  Clara.  My  Dutch  apple-cake  is  real 
good.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Halstead  in  California, 
a  nice  woman,  though  her  son  was  in  prison  for 
forgery.  I  must  tell  you  about  him:  his  wife  had 
triplets,  and  she — I  don't  mean  the  wife,  I  mean 
Mrs.  Halstead — she  said  my  Dut — '  But  Clara 
just  got  up  and  flew  out  of  the  room.  I  don't 
understand  it!  As  I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  King 
yesterday — no;  day  before  yesterday.  No,  it 
was  yesterday,  right  outside  Mr.  Horace  Shields's 
store;  I  said,  'I  don't  understand  poor,  dear 

372 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

Clara.'    And  Mrs.  King  said —    Mrs.  Ormsby,  I 
haven't  a  place  on  earth  to  go,  or  I'd  go." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  advise,"  Mrs.  Ormsby  said. 
"Why  don't  you  ask  my  son  what  you'd  better 
do?" 

"I  believe  I  will,"  Mrs.  Herbert  said,  wiping 
her  eyes.  "Oh,  what  a  man  he  is,  always  so  kind 
and  wise!" 

"He's  a  good  friend,"  Oliver's  mother  said. 

He  was;  but  poor  Oliver!  he  was  between  the 
upper  and  the  nether  millstone!  Fanny  poured 
out  her  heart  to  him  about  Dicky,  and  he  winced 
with  sympathy.  Then  Clara — his  Clara! — his 
silent  angel! — just  looked  at  him  with  haggard 
eyes.  "I  couldn't  stand  Dicky,"  she  confessed. 
And  Oliver's  sympathy  was  so  intense  that  the 
tears  actually  stood  in  his  own  eyes. 

"She'll  kill  Clara,"  he  told  his  mother. 

"Well,  Clara  did  her  best  to  kill  Dicky,"  the 
old  lady  reminded  him. 

"She's  looking  dreadfully,"  Oliver  said,  sigh 
ing.  "It's  got  to  stop."  Finally,  in  his  worry, 
he  told  Clara  so.  It  was  on  one  of  their  Sunday- 
afternoon  walks.  Clara,  very  white,  entirely 
speechless,  was  pacing  along  at  his  side  on  the 
wooded  path  between  her  sister  birch- trees. 

' ' Have  a  ' kiss '  ?"  he  said.  "  No  ?  Clara,  she'll 
be  the  death  of  you!" 

She  did  not  pretend  not  to  understand  him. 
"She  does — talk,"  she  admitted. 

"I  wish  she  would  go  away,"  he  said. 
373 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

"She  hasn't  any  place  to  go,"  Clara  whispered, 
quivering. 

"Well,  this  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on!"  Oliver 
declared,  desperately;  "she's  dreadfully  unhappy." 

Clara  gave  him  a  surprised  look.    "Fanny?" 

"Yes;   she's  miserable." 

"Fanny!" 

It  was  Oliver  whose  face  flashed  into  surprise. 
"Why,  haven't  you  thought  how  she  was  feeling 
about  it?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  time;  then,  with  evi 
dent  effort,  she  said,  "I  didn't  suppose  she 
minded." 

"Of  course  she  minds — poor  Fanny!  And  you 
know  you  oughtn't  to  have  let  her  wretched  little 
bird  out." 

"I  couldn't — bear  it,"  she  said,  with  a  gasp. 

He  did  not  argue  with  her.  "I  tell  you,  it  will 
kill  you,  if  it  keeps  on,  Clara." 

Clara  had  nothing  to  say.  It  seemed  to  her, 
her  head  still  dizzy  from  that  resonant,  cheerful, 
incessant  voice,  that  probably  he  was  right.  Fan 
ny  would  kill  her.  But  nothing  could  be  done. 
They  were  Friends.  Friends  cannot  part.  Fanny 
had  come  to  Old  Chester  to  live  and  die  with  her. 

"It's  you  who  will  do  the  dying,"  Oliver  said, 
grimly. 

Clara  turned  hunted  eyes  on  him.  "If  I  could 
only  go — anywhere." 

"She's  the  one  to  go,  of  course,"  he  said;  "but 
if  she  has  no  place  to  go—  Why  don't  you 

374 


THE     SUGGESTION     OF     THOSE     GIVING    HANDS    WAS    INESCAPABLE 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

travel?"  he  ended,  helplessly.  But  even  as  he 
suggested  it  he  saw  the  absurdity  of  the  idea; 
this  flower-like  creature,  buffeting  about  by  her 
self  in  railroad-trains  or  on  steamboats !  Of  course 
it  was  impossible.  "Couldn't  you  just  make  up 
your  mind  not  to  mind  her,  Clara?  She  is  really 
a  very  nice  woman;  a  kind,  good  woman.  You 
know  she  is." 

Clara  nodded.     "She  is  my  Friend,"  she  said. 

"I  find  her  interesting,"  he  declared.  "I  really 
do!  I  like  her.  And  I  like  her  long  stories." 

Clara  turned  sharply  around,  then  frantically 
flung  her  hands  out  to  him  as  if  she  were  giving 
him  something.  "Oh!"  she  said. 

That  was  all.  But  Oliver  Ormsby  stood  stock- 
still  in  the  path.  The  suggestion  of  those  giving 
hands  was  inescapable.  "I  like  her,"  he  stam 
mered,  "but—" 

Clara's  face  had  fallen  into  dull  unhappiness 
again.  Her  gesture  had  had  no  conscious  inten 
tion.  "I  will  soon — hate  her,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  narrowed  with  thought.  "Yet  if  she 
didn't  live  with  you,  you'd  always  love  her?" 

Clara  made  no  answer.  Oliver  unfolded  a  strip 
of  verse  from  a  sticky  "kiss"  and  read  it  me 
chanically  : 

If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you 
No  knife  can  cut — 

"Clara,  you  know  I  love  you.  If  you  would 
only — "  He  paused.  No,  he  would  not  propose 

375 


AROUND   OLD    CHESTER 

again!     It  was  like  asking  a  drop  of  dew  to  lie 
in  his  hand.    Yet  she  would  die  if  this  sort  of  thing 
went  on!     She  was  getting  thinner;    she  looked 
ten  years  older  than  she  did  a  year  ago.    She  was 
as  frail  as  a  little  birch-tree  that  has  bent  under 
an  ice-storm.     But  even  as  he  looked  at  her  he 
had  a  glow  of  pity  for  Fanny,  for,  after  all,  it 
was  hard  on  her,  too!    All  the  more  so  because  she 
couldn't  possibly  understand  what  was  the  mat 
ter.     The  idea  which  leaped  into  his  mind  when 
those   two   shaking  hands  had   seemed   to   offer 
Fanny  to  any  one  who  would  take  her,  clamored 
for  a  hearing.     "I  couldn't  ask  her  to  come  and 
live  with  me,"  he  argued  to  himself,  distractedly; 
"it  wouldn't  be  proper — mother  isn't  going  to 
live  for  ever,  as  she  says.    No;  I  couldn't  ask  her, 
except— except.  ...  It  would  save  Clara  if  I  did 
that,"  he  told  himself.     But  what  would  Clara 
herself  say  to  such  a  thing?     Would  she  believe 
him  false  to  her?     Would  it  wound  her?     The 
mere  idea  of  that  gave  him  a  strange  pang  of 
happiness,  but  it  instantly  ceased:     "It  couldn't 
wound  her;    she  has  never  cared  for  me.     And 
what  would  Fanny  say  to  such  an  arrangement?" 
The  question  gave  him  pause.     He  had  thought 
only  of  Clara.    Fanny's  a  nice  woman;   too  good 
for  me!     Very  likely  she  wouldn't  look  at  me." 
His  fingers  were  crumpling  the  sticky  strip  of 
paper  into  a  little  ball,  and  he  moved  his  "kiss" 
agitatedly  from  one  cheek  to  the  other.     Yet, 
by   "such   an   arrangement,"   Fanny   and   Clara 

376 


MISS    CLARA'S    PERSEUS 

could  go  on  being  friends  for  ever.  "Yes;  I  could 
save  Clara,  if  only  Fanny  can  put  up  with  me. 
But  can  she?" 

All  the  way  home  his  startled  mind  asked  this 
question.  By  the  time  he  reached  Clara's  gate, 
he  was  very  apprehensive.  After  all,  why  should 
Fanny  put  up  with  him? — put  up  with  a  stout, 
bald  gentleman  who  played  on  the  flute  and  read 
novels,  and  whose  taste  ran  to  the  simplicity  of 
"kisses";  a  man  who  could  not  honestly  say  he 
was  in  love  with  her?  "It  would  save  Clara;  but 
Fanny's  got  to  think  of  herself,  and  she  may  not 
see  her  way  clear  to  take  me, ' '  he  told  himself.  The 
anxiety  in  his  face  was  keener  than  any  that  had 
showed  itself  in  these  later  years  in  his  semiannual 
proposals  to  Clara.  But  it  was  soon  allayed.  .  .  . 

After  the  first  gasp  of  astonishment  (he  offered 
himself  the  next  day),  Mrs.  Herbert  "saw  her 
way"  with  entire  clearness. 

"'Course  you  and  I  aren't  two  love-sick  young 
sters,"  she  said,  frankly;  "but  I  do  like  you,  Mr. 
Ormsby,  and  if  you  like  me,  why,  I'm  willing.  It 
will  be  a  relief  to  get  out  of  this  house!" 

"No,  we  are  not  youngsters,"  Oliver  agreed; 
"and  I've  been  in  love  with  Clara  for  twenty-four 
years.  I  don't  know  whether  you  knew  that?" 

"If  I  had  a  cataract  on  each  eye  I  could  see 
it,"  she  told  him,  laughing. 

"She  has  never  cared  for  me,"  he  said,  simply; 
"as  for  you  and  me,  why,  we  are  good  friends, 
and  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy." 

377 


AROUND    OLD    CHESTER 

''All  right!"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  and  held  out  a 
warm  and  hearty  hand. 

Old  Chester  fairly  buzzed  with  excitement. 

"Faithless!"  said  Miss  Ellen's  girls;  "he  is  a 
faithless  lover,  and  she  is  a  faithless  Friend. 
And  Miss  Clara  is  an  angel!" 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  Dr.  Lavendar  asked 
Mrs.  Ormsby. 

"I'm  as  pleased  as  can  be!"  she  declared. 
"Fanny  is  a  good  housekeeper,  and  she'll  look 
after  his  winter  flannels." 

"What  does  Andromeda  say?"  Dr.  Lavendar 
inquired. 

"Andromeda?"  Mrs.  Ormsby  said,  puzzled. 
"Who  is  Andromeda?" 

"Ask  Oliver,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar;  "and  tell 
him  I  always  liked  Perseus." 

"Now,  what  did  he  mean?"  Mrs.  Ormsby  asked 
her  son  at  supper  that  night.  "Who  is  Andro 
meda?" 

"Clara,  I  suppose,"  Oliver  said,  grinning;  "but 
I'll  have  Dr.  Lavendar  know  that,  though  I  may 
be  a  Perseus,  there's  no  sea-monster  in  this  story ! 
Fanny  is  a  fine  woman." 

"She  is,"  the  old  lady  said,  contentedly.  "I 
don't  know  whether  you  are  a  Perseus,  what 
ever  that  is,  or  not,  but  I'll  tell  you  one  thing 
you  are:  you're  a  Friend!  You  can  tell  Clara 
Hale  so,  with  my  compliments!" 


THE    END 


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MAR  19   1938 


f.Jnni i  P. 


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